!t !  i  ii   rfrflr. <M>!;    .&  wBrJft^tinfe. 


•  lOT 


it.    *«!»''  ><mUK,     M\        mama 


jtj  j[t  IjittflfRi 


»ti?I  U    U'U}  >»  !!  i'H  ! 


KCIS  LYNDE 


THE  KING  OF  ARCADIA 


"You  must  help    me,"    she    pleaded;    "I  cannot  see  the  way 
a  single  step  ahead" 


THE    KING 
OF  ARCADIA 


BY 

FRANCIS    LYNDE 

Author  of  "A  Romance  in  Transit,"  "The  Quickening,"  etc. 


ILLUSTRATED 


CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 
NEW   YORK:::::::::::::::::::i9o9 


COPYRIGHT,  1909,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published  February,  1909 


£o  mp  Haunter  Dorothea, 

AMANUENSIS  OF  THE 

LOVING  HEART  AND  WILLING  HANDS 
IN   ITS  WRITING, 

THIS  BOOK 
IS  AFFECTIONATELY  INSCRIBED. 


M18055 


Contents 

XVIII  THE  INDICTMENT 224 

XIX  IN  THE  LABORATORY 253 

XX  THE  GEOLOGIST 272 

XXI  MR.  PELHAM'S  GAME-BAG 295 

XXII  A  CRY  IN  THE  NIGHT 321 

XXIII  DEEP  UNTO  DEEP 337 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"You  must  help  me,"  she  pleaded;    "I  cannot  see  the 

way  a  single  step  ahead" Frontispiece 

FACING 
PAGE 

"Seiior   Ballar',   I  have   biffo'  to-day  killed  a  man   for 

that  he  spik  to  me  like-a-that ! " 72 

The   muscles   of  his   face   were   twitching,    and   he   was 

breathing  hard,  like  a  spent  runner 200 

"  There  is  my  notion — and  a  striking  example  of  Mex 
ican  fair  play" 234 


THE   KING  OF  ARCADIA 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

,  „''  *  ".  .     */  i    t 

I,    «,     ,  .>„.,   ,    ,  J   „ 
:v,  ;     ',  ••'  '•'  •'.•*':"  ' 

THE  CRYPTOGRAM 

THE  strenuous  rush  of  the  day  of  suddenly 
changed  plans  was  over,  and  with  Gardiner, 
the  assistant  professor  of  geology,  to  bid  him  God 
speed,  Ballard  had  got  as  far  as  the  track  platform 
gates  of  the  Boston  &  Albany  Station  when  Lass- 
ley's  telegram,   like  a    detaining   hand    stretched 
forth  out  of  the  invisible,  brought  him  to  a  stand. 
He  read  it,  with  a  little  frown  of  perplexity  sober 
ing  his  strong,  enthusiastic  face. 

"S.S.  Carania,  NEW  YORK. 
"  To  BRECKENRIDGE  BALLARD,  Boston. 

"You  love  life  and  crave  success.  Arcadia  Irrigation 
has  killed  its  originator  and  two  chiefs  of  construction. 
It  will  kill  you.  Let  it  alone. 

"LASSLEY." 

He  signed  the  book,  tipped  the  boy  for  his  suc 
cessful  chase,  and  passed  the  telegram  on  to  Gar 
diner. 

3 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

"  If  you  were  called  in  as  an  expert,  what  would 
you  make  of  that  ?"  he  asked. 

The  assistant  professor  adjusted  his  eye-glasses, 
read  the  message,  and  returned  it  without  sugges 
tive  comment. 

"My  field  being  altogether  prosaic,  I  should 
make  nothing  of  it.  There  are  no  assassinations 
in  geology.  What  does  it  mean?" 

Ballard  shook  his  head. 

"I  haven't  the  remotest  idea.  I  wired  Lassley 
this  morning  telling  him  that  I  had  thrown  up  the 
Cuban  sugar  mills  construction  to  accept  the  chief 
engineer's  billet  on  Arcadia  Irrigation.  I  didn't 
suppose  he  had  ever  heard  of  Arcadia  before  my 
naming  of  it  to  him." 

"I  thought  the  Lassleys  were  in  Europe,"  said 
Gardiner. 

"They  are  sailing  to-day  in  the  Carania,  from 
New  York.  My  wire  was  to  wish  them  a  safe 
voyage,  and  to  give  my  prospective  address.  That 
explains  the  date-line  of  this  telegram." 

"  But  it  does  not  explain  the  warning.  Is  it  true 
that  the  Colorado  irrigation  scheme  has  blotted  out 
three  of  its  field  officers?" 

"Oh,  an  imaginative  person  might  put  it  that 
way,  I  suppose,"  said  Ballard,  his  tone  asserting 
that  none  but  an  imaginative  person  would  be  so 
foolish.  "  Braithwaite,  of  the  Geodetic  Survey,  was 

4 


The  Cryptogram 

the  originator  of  the  plan  for  constructing  a  storage 
reservoir  in  the  upper  Boiling  Water  basin,  and  for 
transforming  Arcadia  Park  into  an  irrigated  agri 
cultural  district.  He  interested  Mr.  Pelham  and  a 
few  other  Denver  capitalists,  and  they  sent  him 
out  as  chief  engineer  to  stand  the  project  on  its 
feet.  Shortly  after  he  had  laid  the  foundations  for 
the  reservoir  dam,  he  fell  into  the  Boiling  Water 
and  was  drowned." 

Gardiner's  humour  was  as  dry  as  his  profes 
sional  specialty.  "One,"  he  said,  checking  off  the 
unfortunate  Braithwaite  on  his  fingers. 

"Then  Billy  Sanderson  took  it — you  remember 
Billy,  in  my  year  ?  He  made  the  preliminary  sur 
vey  for  an  inlet  railroad  over  the  mountains,  and 
put  a  few  more  stones  on  Braithwaite's  dam.  As 
they  say  out  on  the  Western  edge  of  things,  San 
derson  died  with  his  boots  on;  got  into  trouble 
with  somebody  about  a  camp-following  woman 
and  was  shot." 

"  Two,"  checked  the  assistant  in  geology.  "  Who 
was  the  third  ?" 

"An  elderly,  dyspeptic  Scotchman  named  Mac- 
pherson.  He  took  up  the  work  where  Sanderson 
dropped  it;  built  the  railroad  over  the  mountain 
and  through  Arcadia  Park  to  the  headquarters  at 
the  dam,  and  lived  to  see  the  dam  itself  something 
more  than  half  completed." 

5 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

"And  what  happened  to  Mr.  Macpherson  ?" 
queried  Gardiner. 

"He  was  killed  a  few  weeks  ago.  The  derrick 
fell  on  him.  The  accident  provoked  a  warm  dis 
cussion  in  the  technical  periodicals.  A  wire  guy 
cable  parted — 'rusted  off,'  the  newspaper  report 
said — and  there  was  a  howl  from  the  wire-rope 
makers,  who  protested  that  a  rope  made  of  galvan 
ised  wire  couldn't  possibly  'rust  off." 

"Nevertheless,  Mr.  Macpherson  was  success 
fully  killed,"  remarked  the  professor  dryly.  "That 
would  seem  to  be  the  persisting  fact  in  the  discus 
sion.  Does  none  of  these  things  move  you  ?" 

"  Certainly  not,"  returned  the  younger  man.  "  I 
shall  neither  fall  into  the  river,  nor  stand  under  a 
derrick  whose  guy  lines  are  unsafe." 

Gardiner's  smile  was  a  mere  eye  wrinkle  of  good- 
natured  cynicism.  "  You  carefully  omit  poor  San 
derson's  fate.  One  swims  out  of  a  torrent — if  he 
can — and  an  active  young  fellow  might  possibly  be 
able  to  dodge  a  falling  derrick.  But  who  can  es 
cape  the  toils  of  the  woman  *  whose  hands  are  as 
bands,  and  whose  feet— 

"Oh,  piff!"  said  the  Kentuckian;  and  then  he 
laughed  aloud.  "There  is,  indeed,  one  woman  in 
the  world,  my  dear  He rr  Professor,  for  whose  sake 
I  would  joyfully  stand  up  and  be  shot  at;  but  she 
isn't  in  Colorado,  by  a  good  many  hundred  miles." 

6 


The  Cryptogram 

"No?  Nevertheless,  Breckenridge,  my  son, 
there  lies  your  best  chance  of  making  the  fourth  in 
the  list  of  sacrifices.  You  are  a  Kentuckian;  an 
ardent  and  chivalric  Southerner.  If  the  Fates 
really  wish  to  interpose  in  contravention  of  the 
Arcadian  scheme,  they  will  once  more  bait  the 
deadfall  with  the  eternal  feminine — always  pre 
suming,  of  course,  that  there  are  any  Fates,  and 
that  they  have  ordinary  intelligence." 

Ballard  shook  his  head  as  if  he  took  the  prophecy 
seriously. 

"I  am  in  no  danger  on  that  score.  Brom 
ley  —  he  was  Sanderson's  assistant,  and  after 
ward  Macpherson's,  you  know — wrote  me  that 
the  Scotchman's  first  general  order  was  an  edict 
banishing  every  woman  from  the  construction 
camps." 

"Now,  if  he  had  only  banished  the  derricks  at 
the  same  time,"  commented  Gardiner  reflectively. 
Then  he  added:  "You  may  be  sure  the  Fates  will 
find  you  an  enchantress,  Breckenridge;  the  oracles 
have  spoken.  What  would  the  most  peerless  Ar 
cadia  be  without  its  shepherdess  ?  But  we  are 
jesting  when  Lassley  appears  to  be  very  much  in 
earnest.  Could  there  be  anything  more  than  coin 
cidence  in  these  fatalities?" 

"How  could  there  be?"  demanded  Ballard. 
"Two  sheer  accidents  and  one  commonplace  trag- 

7 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

edy,  which  last  was  the  fault — or  the  misfortune — 
of  poor  Billy's  temperament,  it  appears;  though  he 
was  a  sober  enough  fellow  when  he  was  here  learn 
ing  his  trade.  Let  me  prophesy  awhile:  I  shall 
live  and  I  shall  finish  building  the  Arcadian  dam. 
Now  let  us  side-track  Lassley  and  his  cryptogram 
and  go  back  to  what  I  was  trying  to  impress  on 
your  mind  when  he  butted  in;  which  is  that  you 
are  not  to  forget  your  promise  to  come  out  and 
loaf  with  me  in  August.  You  shall  have  all  the 
luxuries  a  construction  camp  affords,  and  you 
can  geologise  to  your  heart's  content  in  virgin 
soil." 

"That  sounds  whettingly  enticing,"  said  the  po 
tential  guest.  "And,  besides,  I  am  immensely  in 
terested  in  dams;  and  in  wire  cables  that  give  way 
at  inopportune  moments.  If  I  were  you,  Brecken- 
ridge,  I  should  make  it  a  point  to  lay  that  broken 
guy  cable  aside.  It  might  make  interesting  matter 
for  an  article  in  the  Engineer;  say,  '  On  the  Effect 
of  the  Atmosphere  in  High  Altitudes  upon  Galvan 
ised  Wire.'" 

Ballard  paid  the  tributary  laugh.  "I  believe 
you'd  have  your  joke  if  you  were  dying.  However, 
I'll  keep  the  broken  cable  for  you,  and  the  pool 
where  Braithwaite  was  drowned,  and  Sanderson's 
inamorata — only  I  suppose  Macpherson  obliter 
ated  her  at  the  earliest  possible.  .  .  .  Say,  by 

8 


The  Cryptogram 

Jove!  that's  my  train  he's  calling.     Good-by,  and 
don't  forget  your  promise." 

After  which,  but  for  a  base-runner's  dash  down 
the  platform,  Ballard  would  have  lost  the  reward 
of  the  strenuous  day  of  changed  plans  at  the  final 
moment. 


II 

THE  TRIPPERS 

IT  was  on  the  Monday  afternoon  that  Brecken- 
ridge  Ballard  made  the  base-runner's  dash 
through  the  station  gates  in  the  Boston  terminal, 
and  stood  in  the  rearmost  vestibule  of  his  outgoing 
train  to  watch  for  the  passing  of  a  certain  familiar 
suburb  where,  at  the  home  of  the  hospitable  Lass- 
leys,  he  had  first  met  Miss  Craigmiles. 

On  the  Wednesday  evening  following,  he  was 
gathering  his  belongings  in  the  sleeper  of  a  belated 
Chicago  train  preparatory  to  another  dash  across 
platforms — this  time  in  the  echoing  station  at 
Council  Bluffs — to  catch  the  waiting  "Overland 
Flyer"  for  the  run  to  Denver. 

President  Pelham's  telegram,  which  had  found 
him  in  Boston  on  the  eve  of  closing  a  contract  with 
the  sugar  magnates  to  go  and  build  refineries  in 
Cuba,  was  quite  brief,  but  it  bespoke  haste: 

"We  need  a  fighting  man  who  can  build  railroads  and 
dams  and  dig  ditches  in  Arcadia.  Salary  satisfactory  to 
you.  Wire  quick  if  you  can  come." 

IO 


The  Trippers 

This  was  the  wording  of  it;  and  at  the  evening 
hour  of  train-changing  in  Council  Bluffs,  Ballard 
was  sixteen  hundred  miles  on  his  way,  racing  defi 
nitely  to  a  conference  with  the  president  of  Arcadia 
Irrigation  in  Denver,  with  the  warning  telegram 
from  Lassley  no  more  than  a  vague  disturbing 
underthought. 

What  would  lie  beyond  the  conference  he  knew 
only  in  the  large.  As  an  industrial  captain  in 
touch  with  the  moving  world  of  great  projects,  he 
was  familiar  with  the  plan  for  the  reclamation  of 
the  Arcadian  desert.  A  dam  was  in  process  of 
construction,  the  waters  of  a  mountain  torrent  were 
to  be  impounded,  a  system  of  irrigating  canals 
opened,  and  a  connecting  link  of  railway  built. 
Much  of  the  work,  he  understood,  was  already 
done;  and  he  was  to  take  charge  as  chief  of  con 
struction  and  carry  it  to  its  conclusion. 

So  much  President  Pelham's  summons  made 
clear.  But  what  was  the  mystery  hinted  at  in 
Lassley's  telegram  ?  And  did  it  have  any  connec 
tion  with  that  phrase  in  President  Pelham's  wire: 
"We  need  a  fighting  man"  ? 

These  queries,  not  yet  satisfactorily  answered, 
were  presenting  themselves  afresh  when  Ballard 
followed  the  porter  to  the  section  reserved  for  him 
in  the  Denver  sleeper.  The  car  was  well  filled; 
and  when  he  could  break  away  from  the  specula- 

ii 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

tive  entanglement  long  enough  to  look  about  him, 
he  saw  that  the  women  passengers  were  numerous 
enough  to  make  it  more  than  probable  that  he 
would  be  asked,  later  on,  to  give  up  his  lower  berth 
to  one  of  them. 

Being  masculinely  selfish,  and  a  seasoned  trav 
eller  withal,  he  was  steeling  himself  to  say  "No" 
to  this  request  what  time  the  train  was  rumbling 
over  the  great  bridge  spanning  the  Missouri.  The 
bridge  passage  was  leisurely,  and  there  was  time  for 
a  determined  strengthening  of  the  selfish  defenses. 

But  at  the  Omaha  station  there  was  a  fresh  in 
flux  of  passengers  for  the  Denver  car,  and  to  Bal- 
lard's  dismay  they  appeared  at  the  first  hasty 
glance  to  be  all  women. 

"O  good  Lord!"  he  ejaculated;  and  finding  his 
pipe  retreated  precipitately  in  the  direction  of  the 
smoking-compartment,  vaguely  hoping  to  dodge 
the  inevitable. 

At  the  turn  around  the  corner  of  the  linen  locker 
he  glanced  back.  Two  or  three  figures  in  the 
group  of  late  comers  might  have  asked  for  recogni 
tion  if  he  had  looked  fairly  at  them;  but  he  had 
eyes  for  only  one:  a  modish  young  woman  in  a 
veiled  hat  and  a  shapeless  gray  box  travelling-coat, 
who  was  evidently  trying  to  explain  something  to 
the  Pullman  conductor. 

"Jove!"  he  exclaimed;  "if  I  weren't  absolutely 
12 


The  Trippers 

certain  that  Elsa  Craigmiles  is  half-way  across  the 
Atlantic  with  the  Lassleys — but  she  is;  and  if  she 
were  not,  she  wouldn't  be  here,  doing  the  l  person 
ally  conducted'  for  that  mob."  And  he  went  on 
to  smoke. 

It  was  a  very  short  time  afterward  that  an  apolo 
getic  Pullman  conductor  found  him,  and  the  in 
evitable  came  to  pass. 

"This  is  Mr.  Ballard,  I  believe?" 

A  nod,  and  an  uphanding  of  tickets. 

"Thank  you.  I  don't  like  to  discommode  you, 
Mr.  Ballard;  but — er — you  have  an  entire  section, 
and " 

"I  know,"  said  Ballard  crisply.  "The  lady  got 
on  the  wrong  train,  or  she  bought  the  wrong  kind 
of  ticket,  or  she  took  chances  on  finding  the  good- 
natured  fellow  who  would  give  up  his  berth  and 
go  hang  himself  on  a  clothes-hook  in  the  vestibule. 
I  have  been  there  before,  but  I  have  not  yet  learned 
how  to  say  'No.'  Fix1  it  up  any  way  you  please, 
only  don't  give  me  an  upper  over  a  flat-wheeled 
truck,  if  you  can  help  it." 

An  hour  later  the  dining-car  dinner  was  an 
nounced;  and  Ballard,  who  had  been  poring  over  a 
set  of  the  Arcadian  maps  and  profiles  and  a  thick 
packet  of  documents  mailed  to  intercept  him  at 
Chicago,  brought  up  the  rear  of  the  outgoing  group 
from  the  Denver  car. 

13 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

In  the  vestibule  of  the  diner  he  found  the  steward 
wrestling  suavely  with  a  late  contingent  of  hungry 
ones,  and  explaining  that  the  tables  were  all  tem 
porarily  full.  Ballard  had  broad  shoulders  and 
the  Kentucky  stature  to  match  them.  Looking 
over  the  heads  of  the  others,  he  marked,  at  the 
farther  end  of  the  car,  a  table  for  two,  with  one 
vacant  place. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon — there  is  only  one  of  me," 
he  cut  in;  and  the  steward  let  him  pass.  When  he 
had  dodged  the  laden  waiters  and  was  taking  the 
vacant  seat  he  found  himself  confronting  the  young 
woman  in  the  veiled  hat  and  the  gray  box-coat, 
identified  her,  and  discovered  in  a  petrifying  shock 
of  astoundment  that  she  was  not  Miss  Elsa  Craig- 
miles's  fancied  double,  but  Miss  Craigmiles  her 
self. 

"Why,  Mr.  Ballard— of  all  people!"  she  cried, 
with  a  brow-lifting  of  genuine  or  well-assumed  sur 
prise.  And  then  in  mock  consternation:  "Don't 
tell  me  that  you  are  the  good-natured  gentleman 
I  drove  out  of  his  section  in  the  sleeping-car." 

"I  sha'n't;  because  I  don't  know  how  many 
more  there  are  of  me,"  said  Ballard.  Then,  as 
tonishment  demanding  its  due:  "Did  I  only 
dream  that  you  were  going  to  Europe  with  the 
Herbert  Lassleys,  or— 

She  made  a  charming  little  face  at  him. 


The  Trippers 

"  Do  you  never  change  your  plans  suddenly,  Mr. 
Ballard  ?  Never  mind;  you  needn't  confess:  I 
know  you  do.  Well,  so  do  I.  At  the  last  moment 
I  begged  off,  and  Mrs.  Lassley  fairly  scolded.  She 
even  went  so  far  as  to  accuse  me  of  not  knowing 
my  own  mind  for  two  minutes  at  a  time." 

Ballard's  smile  was  almost  grim. 

"You  have  given  me  that  impression  now  and 
then;  when  I  wanted  to  be  serious  and  you  did  not. 
Did  you  come  aboard  with  that  party  at  Omaha  ?" 

"  Did  I  not  ?  It's  my — that  is,  it's  cousin  Janet 
Van  Bryck's  party;  and  we  are  going  to  do  Colo 
rado  this  summer.  Think  of  that  as  an  exchange 
for  England  and  a  yachting  voyage  to  Tromsoe!" 

This  time  Ballard's  smile  was  affectionately 
cynical. 

"I  didn't  suppose  you  ever  forgot  yourself  so 
far  as  to  admit  that  there  was  any  America  west  of 
the  Aileghany  Mountains." 

Miss  Elsa's  laugh  was  one  of  her  most  effective 
weapons.  Ballard  was  made  to  feel  that  he  had 
laid  himself  open  at  some  vulnerable  point,  with 
out  knowing  how  or  why. 

"Dear  me!"  she  protested.  "How  long  does  it 
take  you  to  really  get  acquainted  with  people?" 
Then  with  reproachful  demureness:  "The  man 
has  been  waiting  for  five  full  minutes  to  take  your 
dinner  order." 

'5 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

One  of  Ballard's  gifts  was  pertinacity;  and  after 
he  had  told  the  waiter  what  to  bring,  he  returned 
to  her  question. 

"It  is  taking  me  long  enough  to  get  acquainted 
with  you,"  he  ventured.  "It  will  be  two  years 
next  Tuesday  since  we  first  met  at  the  Herbert 
Lassleys',  and  you  have  been  delightfully  good  to 
me,  and  even  chummy  with  me — when  you  felt 
like  it.  Yet  do  you  know  you  have  never  once 
gone  back  of  your  college  days  in  speaking  of  your 
self  ?  I  don't  know  to  this  blessed  moment  whether 
you  ever  had  any  girlhood;  and  that  being  the 
case " 

"Oh,  spare  me!"  she  begged,  in  well-counter 
feited  dismay.  "One  would  think " 

"One  would  not  think  anything  of  you  that  he 
ought  not  to  think,"  he  broke  in  gravely;  adding: 
"We  are  a  long  way  past  the  Alleghanies  now,  and 
I  am  glad  you  are  aware  of  an  America  somewhat 
broader  than  it  is  long.  Do  I  know  any  of  your 
sightseers,  besides  Mrs.  Van  Bryck?" 

"I  don't  know;  I'll  list  them  for  you,"  she  of 
fered.  "There  are  Major  Blacklock,  United 
States  Engineers,  retired,  who  always  says,  'H'm 
—ha!'  before  he  contradicts  you;  the  major's 
nieces,  Madge  and  Margery  Cantrell — the  idea  of 
splitting  one  name  for  two  girls  in  the  same  family! 
—and  the  major's  son,  Jerry,  most  hopeful  when 

16 


The  Trippers 

he  is  pitted  against  other  young  savages  on  the 
football  field.     All  strangers,  so  far?" 

Ballard  nodded,  and  she  went  on. 

"Then  there  are  Mrs.  Van  Bryck  and  Dosia— 
I  am  sure  you  have  met  them;  and  Hetty  Bigelow, 
their  cousin,  twice  removed,  whom  you  have  never 
met,  if  Cousin  Janet  could  help  it;  and  Hetty's 
brother,  Lucius,  who  is  something  or  other  in  the 
Forestry  Service.  Let  me  see;  how  many  is  that  ?" 

"Eight,"  said  Ballard,  "counting  the  negligible 
Miss  Bigelow  and  her  tree-nursing  brother." 

"Good.  I  merely  wanted  to  make  sure  you 
were  paying  attention.  Last,  but  by  no  means 
least,  there  is  Mr.  Wingfield — the  Mr.  Wingfield, 
who  writes  plays." 

Without  ever  having  been  suffered  to  declare 
himself  Miss  Elsa's  lover,  Ballard  resented  the 
saving  of  the  playwright  for  the  climax;  also,  he 
resented  the  respectful  awe,  real  or  assumed,  with 
which  his  name  was  paraded. 

"Let  me  remember,"  he  said,  with  the  frown  re 
flective.  "  I  believe  it  was  Jack  Forsyth  the  last  time 
you  confided  in  me.  Is  it  Mr.  Wingfield  now?" 

"Would  you  listen!"  she  laughed;  but  he  made 
quite  sure  there  was  a  blush  to  go  with  the  laugh. 
"Do  you  expect  me  to  tell  you  about  it  here  and 
now  ? — with  Mr.  Wingfield  sitting  just  three  seats 
back  of  me,  on  the  right  ?" 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

Ballard  scowled,  looked  as  directed,  and  took 
the  measure  of  his  latest  rival. 

Wingfield  was  at  a  table  for  four,  with  Mrs.  Van 
Bryck,  her  daughter,  and  a  shock-headed  young 
man,  whom  Ballard  took  to  be  the  football-playing 
Blacklock.  In  defiance  of  the  clean-shaven  custom 
of  the  moment,  or,  perhaps,  because  he  was  will 
ing  to  individualise  himself,  the  playwright  wore  a 
beard  closely  trimmed  and  pointed  in  the  French 
manner;  this,  the  quick-grasping  eyes,  and  a  certain 
vulpine  showing  of  white  teeth  when  he  laughed, 
made  Ballard  liken  him  to  an  unnamed  singer  he 
had  once  heard  in  the  part  of  Mephistopheles. 

The  overlooking  glance  necessarily  included 
Wingfield's  table  companions:  Mrs.  Van  Bryck's 
high-bred  contours  lost  in  adipose;  Dosia's  cool 
and  placid  prettiness — the  passionless  charms  of 
unrelieved  milk-whiteness  of  skin  and  masses  of 
flaxen  hair  and  baby-blue  eyes;  the  Blacklock 
boy's  square  shoulders,  heavy  jaw,  and  rather  fine 
eyes — which  he  kept  resolutely  in  his  plate  for  the 
better  part  of  the  time. 

At  the  next  table  Ballard  saw  a  young  man  with 
the  brown  of  an  outdoor  occupation  richly  colouring 
face  and  hands;  an  old  one  with  the  contradictory 
"  H'm — ha ! "  written  out  large  in  every  gesture;  and 
two  young  women  who  looked  as  if  they  might  be 
the  sharers  of  the  single  Christian  name.  Miss 

18 


The  Trippers 

Bigelow,  the  remaining  member  of  the  party,  had 
apparently  been  lost  in  the  dinner  seating.  At  all 
events,  Ballard  did  not  identify  her. 

"Well?"  said  Miss  Craigmiles,  seeming  to  inti 
mate  that  he  had  looked  long  enough. 

"  I  shall  know  Mr.  Wingfield,  if  I  ever  see  him 
again,"  remarked  Ballard.  "Whose  guest  is  he? 
Or  are  you  all  Mrs.  Van  Bryck's  guests?" 

"What  an  idea!"  she  scoffed.  "Cousin  Janet  is 
going  into  the  absolutely  unknown.  She  doesn't 
reach  even  to  the  Alleghanies;  her  America  stops 
short  at  Philadelphia.  She  is  the  chaperon;  but 
our  host  isn't  with  us.  We  are  to  meet  him  in  the 
wilds  of  Colorado." 

"Anybody  I  know?"  queried  Ballard. 

"No.  And — oh,  yes,  I  forgot;  Professor  Gar 
diner  is  to  join  us  later.  I  knew  there  must  be  one 
more  somewhere.  But  he  was  an  afterthought. 
I — Cousin  Janet,  I  mean — got  his  acceptance  by 
wire  at  Omaha." 

"Gardiner  is  not  going  to  join  you,"  said  Bal 
lard,  with  the  cool  effrontery  of  a  proved  friend. 
"He  is  going  to  join  me." 

"Where?     In  Cuba?" 

"Oh,  no;  I  am  not  going  to  Cuba.  I  am  going 
to  live  the  simple  life;  building  dams  and  digging 
ditches  in  Arcadia." 

He  was  well  used  to  her  swiftly  changing  moods. 
19 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

What  Miss  Elsa's  critics,  who  were  chiefly  of  her 
own  sex,  spoke  of  disapprovingly  as  her  flightiness, 
was  to  Ballard  one  of  her  characterizing  charms. 
Yet  he  was  quite  unprepared  for  her  grave  and 
frankly  reproachful  question: 

"Why  aren't  you  going  to  Cuba?  Didn't  Mr. 
Lassley  telegraph  you  not  to  go  to  Arcadia  ?" 

"He  did,  indeed.  But  what  do  you  know  about 
it  ? — if  I  may  venture  to  ask  ?" 

For  the  first  time  in  their  two  years'  acquaint 
ance  he  saw  her  visibly  embarrassed.  And  her 
explanation  scarcely  explained. 

"  I — I  was  with  the  Lassleys  in  New  York,  you 
know;  I  went  to  the  steamer  to  see  them  off.  Mr. 
Lassley  showed  me  his  telegram  to  you  after  he  had 


written  it." 


They  had  come  to  the  little  coffees,  and  the  other 
members  of  Miss  Craigmiles's  party  had  risen  and 
gone  rearward  to  the  sleeping-car.  Ballard,  more 
mystified  than  he  had  been  at  the  Boston  moment 
when  Lassley's  wire  had  found  him,  was  still  too 
considerate  to  make  his  companion  a  reluctant 
source  of  further  information.  Moreover,  Mr. 
Lester  Wingfield  was  weighing  upon  him  more  in 
sistently  than  the  mysteries.  In  times  past  Miss 
Craigmiles  had  made  him  the  target  for  certain 
little  arrows  of  confidence :  he  gave  her  an  oppor 
tunity  to  do  it  again. 

20 


The  Trippers 

"Tell  me  about  Mr.  Wingfield,"  he  suggested. 
"Is  he  truly  Jack  Forsyth's  successor?" 

"How  can  you  question  it?"  she  retorted  gayly. 
"Some  time — not  here  or  now — I  will  tell  you  all 
about  it." 

"Some  time,"  he  repeated.  "Is  it  always 
going  to  be  'some  time'  ?  You  have  been  calling 
me  your  friend  for  a  good  while,  but  there  has 
always  been  a  closed  door  beyond  which  you  have 
never  let  me  penetrate.  And  it  is  not  my  fault,  as 
you  intimated  a  few  minutes  ago.  Why  is  it  ?  Is 
it  because  I'm  only  one  of  many  ?  Or  is  it  your 
attitude  toward  all  men?" 

She  was  knotting  her  veil  and  her  eyes  were 
downcast  when  she  answered  him. 

"A  closed  door?  There  is,  indeed,  my  dear 
friend:  two  hands,  one  dead  and  one  still  living, 
closed  it  for  us.  It  may  be  opened  some  time"- 
the  phrase  persisted,  and  she  could  not  get  away 
from  it — "and  then  you  will  be  sorry.  Let  us  go 
back  to  the  sleeping-car.  I  want  you  to  meet  the 
others."  Then  with  a  quick  return  to  mockery: 
"Only  I  suppose  you  will  not  care  to  meet  Mr. 
Wingfield?" 

He  tried  to  match  her  mood;  he  was  always  trying 
to  keep  up  with  her  kaleidoscopic  changes  of  front. 

"Try  me,  and  see,"  he  laughed.  "I  guess  I  can 
stand  it,  if  he  can." 

21 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

And  a  few  minutes  later  he  had  been  presented 
to  the  other  members  of  the  sight-seeing  party; 
had  taken  Mrs.  Van  Bryck's  warm  fat  hand  of 
welcome  and  Dosia's  cool  one,  and  was  success 
fully  getting  himself  contradicted  at  every  other 
breath  by  the  florid-faced  old  campaigner,  who, 
having  been  a  major  of  engineers,  was  conten- 
tiously  critical  of  young  civilians  who  had  taken 
their  B.S.  degree  otherwhere  than  at  West  Point. 


22 


Ill 

THE  REVERIE  OF  A  BACHELOR 

IT  was  shortly  after  midnight  when  the  "Over 
land  Flyer"  made  its  unscheduled  stop  behind 
a  freight  train  which  was  blocking  the  track  at  the 
blind  siding  at  Coyote.  Always  a  light  sleeper, 
Ballard  was  aroused  by  the  jar  and  grind  of  the 
sudden  brake-clipping;  and  after  lying  awake  and 
listening  for  some  time,  he  got  up  and  dressed  and 
went  forward  to  see  what  had  happened. 

The  accident  was  a  box-car  derailment,  caused 
by  a  broken  truck,  and  the  men  of  both  train  crews 
were  at  work  trying  to  get  the  disabled  car  back 
upon  the  steel  and  the  track-blocking  train  out  of 
the  "Flyer's"  way.  Inasmuch  as  such  problems 
were  acutely  in  his  line,  Ballard  thought  of  offering 
to  help;  but  since  there  seemed  to  be  no  special 
need,  he  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  ditch-cutting 
to  look  on. 

The  night  was  picture  fine;  starlit,  and  with  the 
silent  wideness  of  the  great  upland  plain  to  give  it 
immensity.  The  wind,  which  for  the  first  hundred 
miles  of  the  westward  flight  had  whistled  shrilly  in 

23 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

the  car  ventilators,  was  now  lulled  to  a  whispering 
zephyr,  pungent  with  the  subtle  soil  essence  of  the 
grass-land  spring. 

Ballard  found  a  cigar  and  smoked  it  absently. 
His  eyes  followed  the  toilings  of  the  train  crews 
prying  and  heaving  under  the  derailed  car,  with 
the  yellow  torch  flares  to  pick  them  out;  but  his 
thoughts  were  far  afield,  with  his  dinner-table  com 
panion  to  beckon  them. 

"Companion"  was  the  word  which  fitted  her 
better  than  any  other.  Ballard  had  found  few 
men,  and  still  fewer  women,  completely  compan 
ionable.  Some  one  has  said  that  comradeship  is 
the  true  test  of  affinity;  and  the  Kentuckian  re 
membered  with  a  keen  appreciation  of  the  truth 
of  this  saying  a  summer  fortnight  spent  at  the 
Herbert  Lassleys'  cottage  on  the  North  Shore, 
with  Miss  Craigmiles  as  one  of  his  fellow-guests. 

Margaret  Lassley  had  been  kind  to  him  on  that 
occasion,  holding  the  reins  of  chaperonage  lightly. 
There  had  been  sunny  afternoons  on  the  breezy 
headlands,  and  blood-quickening  mornings  in 
Captain  Tinkham's  schooner-rigged  whale-boat, 
when  the  white  horses  were  racing  across  the  outer 
reef  and  the  water  was  too  rough  to  tempt  the 
other  members  of  the  house-party. 

He  had  monopolised  Elsa  Craigmiles  crudely 
during  those  two  weeks,  glorying  in  her  beauty,  in 

24 


The  Reverie  of  a  Bachelor 

her  bright  mind,  in  her  triumphant  physical  fit 
ness.  He  remembered  how  sturdily  their  com 
radeship  had  grown  during  the  uninterrupted  fort 
night.  He  had  told  her  all  there  was  to  tell  about 
himself,  and  in  return  she  had  alternately  mocked 
him  and  pretended  to  confide  in  him;  the  confi 
dences  touching  such  sentimental  passages  as  the 
devotion  of  the  Toms,  the  Dicks,  and  the  Harrys 
of  her  college  years. 

Since  he  had  sometimes  wished  to  be  sentimental 
on  his  own  account,  Ballard  had  been  a  little  im 
patient  under  these  frivolous  appeals  for  sympathy. 
But  there  is  a  certain  tonic  for  growing  love  even 
in  such  bucketings  of  cold  water  as  the  loved  one 
may  administer  in  telling  the  tale  of  the  predeces 
sor.  It  is  a  cold  heart,  masculine,  that  will  not 
find  warmth  in  anything  short  of  the  ice  of  indiffer 
ence;  and  whatever  her  faults,  Miss  Elsa  was  never 
indifferent.  Ballard  recalled  how  he  had  groaned 
under  the  jesting  confidences.  Also,  he  remem 
bered  that  he  had  never  dared  to  repel  them, 
choosing  rather  to  clasp  the  thorns  than  to  relin 
quish  the  rose. 

From  the  sentimental  journey  past  to  the  present 
stage  of  the  same  was  but  a  step;  but  the  present 
situation  was  rather  perplexingly  befogged.  Why 
had  Elsa  Craigmiles  changed  her  mind  so  suddenly 
about  spending  the  summer  in  Europe  ?  What 

25 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

could  have  induced  her  to  substitute  a  summer  in 
Colorado,  travelling  under  Mrs.  Van  Bryck's 
wing  ? 

The  answer  to  the  queryings  summed  itself  up, 
for  the  Kentuckian,  in  a  name — the  name  of  a  man 
and  a  playwright.  He  held  Mr.  Lester  Wingfield 
responsible  for  the  changed  plans,  and  was  irritably 
resentful.  In  the  after-dinner  visit  with  the  sight 
seeing  party  in  the  Pullman  there  had  been  straws 
to  indicate  the  compass-point  of  the  wind.  Elsa 
deferred  to  Wingfield,  as  the  other  women  did; 
only  in  her  case  Ballard  was  sure  it  meant  more. 
And  the  playwright,  between  his  posings  as  a  lit 
erary  oracle,  assumed  a  quiet  air  of  proprietorship 
in  Miss  Craigmiles  that  was  maddening. 

Ballard  recalled  this,  sitting  upon  the  edge  of 
the  ditch-cutting  in  the  heart  of  the  fragrant  night, 
and  figuratively  punched  Mr.  Wingfield's  head. 
Fate  had  been  unkind  to  him,  throwing  him  thus 
under  the  wheels  of  the  opportune  when  the  missing 
of  a  single  train  by  either  the  sightseers  or  himself 
would  have  spared  him. 

Taking  that  view  of  the  matter,  there  was  grim 
comfort  in  the  thought  that  the  mangling  could  not 
be  greatly  prolonged.  The  two  orbits  coinciding 
for  the  moment  would  shortly  go  apart  again; 
doubtless  upon  the  morning's  arrival  in  Denver. 
It  was  well.  Heretofore  he  had  been  asked  to 

26 


The  Reverie  of  a  Bachelor 

sympathise  only  in  a  subjective  sense.  With  an 
other  lover  corporeally  present  and  answering  to 
his  name,  the  torture  would  become  objective — 
and  blankly  unendurable. 

Notwithstanding,  he  found  himself  looking  for 
ward  with  keen  desire  to  one  more  meeting  with  the 
beloved  tormentor — to  a  table  exchange  of  thoughts 
and  speech  at  the  dining-car  breakfast  which  he 
masterfully  resolved  not  all  the  playmakers  in  a 
mumming  world  should  forestall  or  interrupt. 

This  determination  was  shaping  itself  in  the 
Kentuckian's  brain  when,  after  many  futile  back 
ings  and  slack-takings,  the  ditched  car  was  finally 
induced  to  climb  the  frogs  and  to  drop  successfully 
upon  the  rails.  When  the  obstructing  freight 
began  to  move,  Ballard  flung  away  the  stump  of 
his  cigar  and  climbed  the  steps  of  the  first  open 
vestibule  on  the  "Flyer,"  making  his  way  to  the 
rear  between  the  sleeping  emigrants  in  the  day- 
coaches. 

Being  by  this  time  hopelessly  wakeful,  he  filled 
his  pipe  and  sought  the  smoking-compartment  of 
the  sleeping-car.  It  was  a  measure  of  his  abstrac 
tion  that  he  did  not  remark  the  unfamiliarity  of 
the  place;  all  other  reminders  failing,  he  should 
have  realised  that  the  fat  negro  porter  working  his 
way  perspiringly  with  brush  and  polish  paste 
through  a  long  line  of  shoes  was  not  the  man  to 

27 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

whom  he  had  given  his  suit-cases  in  the  Council 
Bluffs  terminal. 

But  thinking  pointedly  of  Elsa  Craigmiles,  and 
of  the  joy  of  sharing  another  meal  with  her  in  spite 
of  the  Lester  Wingfields,  he  saw  nothing,  noted 
nothing;  and  the  reverie,  now  frankly  traversing 
the  field  of  sentiment,  ran  on  unbroken  until  he 
became  vaguely  aware  that  the  train  had  stopped 
and  started  again,  and  that  during  the  pause  there 
had  been  sundry  clankings  and  jerkings  betokening 
the  cutting  off  of  a  car. 

A  hasty  question  fired  at  the  fat  porter  cleared 
the  atmosphere  of  doubt. 

"What  station  was  that  we  just  passed  ?" 

"Short  Line  Junction,  sah;  whah  we  leaves  the 
Denver  cyar — yes,  sah." 

"  What  ?     Isn't  this  the  Denver  car  ? " 

"No,  indeed,  sah.  Dish  yer  cyar  goes  on  th'oo 
to  Ogden;  yes,  sah." 

Ballard  leaned  back  again  and  chuckled  in  ironic 
self-derision.  He  was  not  without  a  saving  sense 
of  humour.  What  with  midnight  prowlings  and 
sentimental  reveries  he  had  managed  to  sever  him 
self  most  abruptly  and  effectually  from  his  car,  from 
his  hand-baggage,  from  the  prefigured  breakfast, 
with  Miss  Elsa  for  his  vis-a-vis;  and,  what  was  of 
vastly  greater  importance,  from  the  chance  of  a  day 
long  business  conference  with  President  Pelham! 

28 


The  Reverie  of  a  Bachelor 

"Gardiner,  old  man,  you  are  a  true  prophet;  it 
isn't  in  me  to  think  girl  and  to  play  the  great  game 
at  one  and  the  same  moment,"  he  said,  flinging  a 
word  to  the  assistant  professor  of  geology  across 
the  distance  abysses;  and  the  fat  porter  said: 
"Sah?" 

"  I  was  just  asking  what  time  I  shall  reach  Den 
ver,  going  in  by  way  of  the  main  line  and  Chey 
enne,"  said  Ballard,  with  cheerful  mendacity. 

"Erbout  six  o'clock  in  the  evenin',  sah;  yes, 
sah.  Huccome  you  to  get  leP,  Cap'n  Boss?" 

"  I  didn't  get  left;  it  was  the  Denver  sleeper  that 
got  left,"  laughed  the  Kentuckian.  After  which 
he  refilled  his  pipe,  wrote  a  telegram  to  Mr.  Pel- 
ham,  and  one  to  the  Pullman  conductor  about  his 
hand-baggage,  and  resigned  himself  to  the  inevi- 

OO     O     '  O 

table,  hoping  that  the  chapter  of  accidents  had 
done  its  utmost. 

Unhappily,  it  had  not,  as  the  day  forthcoming 
amply  proved.  Reaching  Cheyenne  at  late  break 
fast-time,  Ballard  found  that  the  Denver  train  over 
the  connecting  line  waited  for  the  "Overland" 
from  the  West;  also,  that  on  this  day  of  all  days, 
the  "Overland"  was  an  hour  behind  her  schedule. 
Hence  there  was  haste-making  extraordinary  at 
the  end  of  the  Boston-Denver  flight.  When  the 
delayed  Cheyenne  train  clattered  in  over  the 
switches,  it  was  an  hour  past  dark.  President  Pel- 

29 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

ham  was  waiting  with  his  automobile  to  whisk  the 
new  chief  off  to  a  hurried  dinner-table  conference 
at  the  Brown  Palace;  and  what  few  explanations 
and  instructions  Ballard  got  were  sandwiched  be 
tween  the  consomme  au  gratin  and  the  dessert. 

Two  items  of  information  were  grateful.  The 
Fitzpatrick  Brothers,  favourably  known  to  Ballard, 
were  the  contractors  on  the  work;  and  Loudon 
Bromley,  who  had  been  his  friend  and  loyal  under 
study  in  the  technical  school,  was  still  the  assistant 
engineer,  doing  his  best  to  push  the  construction 
in  the  absence  of  a  superior. 

Since  the  chief  of  any  army  stands  or  falls  pretty 
largely  by  the  grace  of  his  subordinates,  Ballard 
was  particularly  thankful  for  Bromley.  He  was 
little  and  he  was  young;  he  dressed  like  an  ex 
quisite,  wore  neat  little  patches  of  side-whiskers, 
shot  straight,  played  the  violin,  and  stuffed  birds 
for  relaxation.  But  in  spite  of  these  hindrances, 
or,  perhaps,  because  of  some  of  them,  he  could 
handle  men  like  a  born  captain,  and  he  was  a 
friend  whose  faithfulness  had  been  proved  more 
than  once. 

"I  shall  be  only  too  glad  to  retain  Bromley," 
said  Ballard,  when  the  president  told  him  he 
might  choose  his  own  assistant.  And,  as  time 
pressed,  he  asked  if  there  were  any  other  special 
instructions. 

30 


The  Reverie  of  a  Bachelor 

"Nothing  specific,"  was  the  reply.  "Bromley 
has  kept  things  moving,  but  they  can  be  made 
to  move  faster,  and  we  believe  you  are  the  man 
to  set  the  pace,  Mr.  Ballard;  that's  all.  And 
now,  if  you  are  ready,  we  have  fifteen  minutes 
in  which  to  catch  the  Alta  Vista  train — plenty  of 
time,  but  none  to  throw  away.  I  have  reserved 
your  sleeper." 

It  was  not  until  after  the  returning  automobile 
spin;  after  Ballard  had  checked  his  baggage  and 
had  given  his  recovered  suit-cases  to  the  porter  of 
the  Alta  Vista  car;  that  he  learned  the  significance 
of  the  fighting  clause  in  the  president's  Boston 
telegram. 

They  were  standing  at  the  steps  of  the  Pullman 
for  the  final  word;  had  drawn  aside  to  make  room 
for  a  large  party  of  still  later  comers;  when  the 
president  said,  with  the  air  of  one  who  gathers  up 
the  unconsidered  trifles: 

"  By  the  way,  Mr.  Ballard,  you  may  not  find  it 
all  plain  sailing  up  yonder.  Arcadia  Park  has 
been  for  twenty  years  a  vast  cattle-ranch,  owned, 
or  rather  usurped,  by  a  singular  old  fellow  who  is 
known  as  the  '  King  of  Arcadia.'  Quite  naturally, 
he  opposes  our  plan  of  turning  the  park  into  a 
well-settled  agricultural  field,  to  the  detriment  of 
his  free  cattle  range,  and  he  is  fighting  us." 

"In  the  courts,  you  mean  ?" 
31 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

"In  the  courts  and  out  of  them.  I  might  men 
tion  that  it  was  one  of  his  cow-men  who  killed  San 
derson;  though  that  was  purely  a  personal  quarrel, 
I  believe.  The  trouble  began  with  his  refusal  to 
sell  us  a  few  acres  of  land  and  a  worthless  mining- 
claim  which  our  reservoir  may  submerge,  and  we 
were  obliged  to  resort  to  the  courts.  He  is  fighting 
for  delay  now,  and  in  the  meantime  he  encourages 
his  cowboys  to  maintain  a  sort  of  guerrilla  warfare 
on  the  contractors:  stealing  tools,  disabling  ma 
chinery,  and  that  sort  of  thing.  This  was  Mac- 
pherson's  story,  and  I'm  passing  it  on  to  you.  You 
are  forty  miles  from  the  nearest  sheriff's  office  over 
there;  but  when  you  need  help,  you'll  get  it.  Of 
course,  the  company  will  back  you — to  the  last  dol 
lar  in  the  treasury,  if  necessary." 

Ballard's  rejoinder  was  placatory.  "It  seems 
a  pity  to  open  up  the  new  country  with  a  feud," 
he  said,  thinking  of  his  native  State  and  of  what 
these  little  wars  had  done  for  some  portions  of  it. 
"Can't  the  old  fellow  be  conciliated  in  some 
way?" 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  the  president  doubt 
fully.  "We  want  peaceable  possession,  of  course, 
if  we  can  get  it;  capital  is  always  on  the  side  of 
peace.  In  fact,  we  authorised  Macpherson  to  buy 
peace  at  any  price  in  reason,  and  we'll  give  you 
the  same  authority.  But  Macpherson  always  rep- 

32 


The  Reverie  of  a  Bachelor 

resented  the  old  cattle  king  as  being  unapproach 
able  on  that  side.  On  the  other  hand,  we  all  know 
what  Macpherson  was.  He  had  a  pretty  rough 
tongue  when  he  was  at  his  best;  and  he  was  in  bad 
health  for  a  long  time  before  the  derrick  fell  on 
him.  I  dare  say  he  didn't  try  diplomacy." 

"  I'll  make  love  to  the  cow-punching  princesses," 
laughed  Ballard;  "that  is,  if  there  are  any." 

"There  is  one,  I  understand;  but  I  believe  she 
doesn't  spend  much  of  her  time  at  home.  The 
old  man  is  a  widower,  and,  apart  from  his  sense 
less  fight  on  the  company,  he  appears  to  be — but 
I  won't  prejudice  you  in  advance." 

"No,  don't,"  said  Ballard.  "I'll  size  things  up 
for  myself  on  the  ground.  I— 

The  interruption  was  the  dash  of  a  switch-engine 
up  the  yard  with  another  car  to  be  coupled  to  the 
waiting  mountain  line  train.  Ballard  saw  the  let 
tering  on  the  medallion:  "08." 

"Somebody's  private  hotel  ?"  he  remarked. 

"Yes.  It's  Mr.  Brice's  car,  I  guess.  He  was 
in  town  to-day." 

Ballard  was  interested  at  once. 

"Mr.  Richard  Brice  ? — the  general  manager  of 
theD.  &U.  P.?" 

The  president  nodded. 

"That's  great  luck,"  said  Ballard,  warmly.  "We 
were  classmates  in  the  Institute,  and  I  haven't  seen 

33 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

him  since  he  came  West.  I  think  I'll  ride  in  the 
Naught-eight  till  bedtime." 

"Glad  you  know  him,"  said  the  president.  "Get 
in  a  good  word  for  our  railroad  connection  with 
his  line  at  Alta  Vista,  while  you're  about  it.  There 
is  your  signal;  good-by,  and  good  luck  to  you. 
Don't  forget — 'drive'  is  the  word;  for  every  man, 
minute,  and  dollar  there  is  in  it." 

Ballard  shook  the  presidential  hand  and  swung 
up  to  the  platform  of  the  private  car.  A  reluct 
ant  porter  admitted  him,  and  thus  it  came  about 
that  he  did  not  see  the  interior  of  his  own  sleeper 
until  long  after  the  other  passengers  had  gone  to 
bed. 

"Good  load  to-night,  John?"  he  said  to  the 
porter,  when,  the  private  car  visit  being  ended,  the 
man  was  showing  him  to  his  made-down  berth. 

"Yes,  sah;  mighty  good  for  de  branch.  But 
right  smart  of  dem  is  ladies,  and  dey  don't  he'p  de 
po'  portah  much." 

"Well,  I'll  pay  for  one  of  them,  anyway,"  said 
the  Kentuckian,  good-naturedly  doubling  his  tip. 
"Be  sure  you  rout  me  out  bright  and  early;  I 
want  to  get  ahead  of  the  crowd." 

And  he  wound  his  watch  and  went  to  bed,  se 
renely  unconscious  that  the  hat  upon  the  rail-hook 
next  to  his  own  belonged  to  Mr.  Lester  Wing- 
field;  that  the  hand-bags  over  which  he  had  stum- 

34 


The  Reverie  of  a  Bachelor 

bled  in  the  dimly  lighted  aisle  were  the  impedi 
menta  of  the  ladies  Van  Bryck;  or  that  the  dainty 
little  boots  proclaiming  the  sex — and  youth — of  his 
fellow-traveller  in  the  opposite  Number  Six  were 
the  foot-gear  of  Miss  Elsa  Craigmiles. 


35 


IV 
ARCADY 

ARCADIA  PARK,  as  the  government  map- 
makers  have  traced  it,  is  a  high-lying,  en 
closed  valley  in  the  heart  of  the  middle  Rockies, 
roughly  circular  in  outline,  with  a  curving  west 
ward  sweep  of  the  great  range  for  one-half  of  its 
circumscribing  rampart,  and  the  bent  bow  of  the 
Elk  Mountains  for  the  other. 

Apart  from  storming  the  rampart  heights,  ac 
cessible  only  to  the  hardy  prospector  or  to  the 
forest  ranger,  there  are  three  ways  of  approach  to 
the  shut-in  valley:  up  the  outlet  gorge  of  the  Boil 
ing  Water,  across  the  Elk  Mountains  from  the 
Roaring  Fork,  or  over  the  high  pass  in  the  Con 
tinental  Divide  from  Alta  Vista. 

It  was  from  the  summit  of  the  high  pass  that 
Ballard  had  his  first  view  of  Arcadia.  From 
Alta  Vista  the  irrigation  company's  narrow-gauge 
railway  climbs  through  wooded  gorges  and  around 
rock-ribbed  snow  balds,  following  the  route  of  the 
old  stage  trail;  and  Ballard 's  introductory  picture 

36 


Arcady 

of  the  valley  was  framed  in  the  cab  window  of  the 
locomotive  sent  over  by  Bromley  to  transport  him 
to  the  headquarters  camp  on  the  Boiling  Water. 

In  the  wide  prospect  opened  by  the  surmounting 
of  the  high  pass  there  was  little  to  suggest  the 
human  activities,  and  still  less  to  foreshadow  strife. 
Ballard  saw  a  broad-acred  oasis  in  the  mountain 
desert,  billowed  with  undulating  meadows,  and 
having  for  its  colour  scheme  the  gray-green  of  the 
range  grasses.  Winding  among  the  billowy  hills 
in  the  middle  distance-,  a  wavering  double  line  of 
aspens  marked  the  course  of  the  Boiling  Water. 
Nearer  at  hand  the  bald  slopes  of  the  Saguache 
pitched  abruptly  to  the  forested  lower  reaches; 
and  the  path  of  the  railway,  losing  itself  at  the 
timber  line,  reappeared  as  a  minute  scratch  scor 
ing  the  edge  of  the  gray-green  oasis,  to  vanish, 
distance  effaced,  near  a  group  of  mound-shaped 
hills  to  the  eastward. 

The  start  from  Alta  Vista  with  the  engine  "  spe 
cial"  had  been  made  at  sunrise,  long  before  any  of 
Ballard's  fellow-travellers  in  the  sleeping-car  were 
stirring.  But  the  day  had  proved  unseasonably 
warm  in  the  upper  snow  fields,  and  there  had  been 
time-killing  delays. 

Every  gulch  had  carried  its  torrent  of  melted 
snow  to  threaten  the  safety  of  the  unballasted 
track,  and  what  with  slow  speed  over  the  hazards 

37 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

and  much  shovelling  of  land-slips  in  the  cuttings, 
the  sun  was  dipping  to  the  westward  range  when 
the  lumbering  little  construction  engine  clattered 
down  the  last  of  the  inclines  and  found  the  long 
level  tangents  in  the  park. 

On  the  first  of  the  tangents  the  locomotive  was 
stopped  at  a  watering-tank.  During  the  halt  Bal- 
lard  climbed  down  from  his  cramped  seat  on  the 
fireman's  box  and  crossed  the  cab  to  the  engine- 
man's  gangway.  Hoskins,  the  engine-driver,  lean 
ing  from  his  window,  pointed  out  the  projected 
course  of  the  southern  lateral  canal  in  the  great 
irrigation  system. 

"It'll  run  mighty  nigh  due  west  here,  about 
half-way  between  us  and  the  stage  trail,"  he  ex 
plained;  and  Ballard,  looking  in  the  direction  in 
dicated,  said:  "Where  is  the  stage  trail?  I 
haven't  seen  it  since  we  left  the  snow  balds." 

"It's  over  yonder  in  the  edge  of  the  timber," 
was  the  reply;  and  a  moment  later  its  precise 
location  was  defined  by  three  double-seated  buck- 
boards,  passenger-laden  and  drawn  by  four-in- 
hand  teams  of  tittupping  broncos,  flicking  in  and 
out  among  the  pines  and  pushing  rapidly  east 
ward.  The  distance  was  too  great  for  recognition, 
but  Ballard  could  see  that  there  were  women  in 
each  of  the  vehicles. 

"Hello!"  he  exclaimed.     "Those  people  must 

38 


Arcady 

have  crossed  the  range  from  Alta  Vista  to-day. 
What  is  the  attraction  over  here  ? — a  summer- 
resort  hotel  ?" 

"Not  any  in  this  valley,"  said  the  engineman. 
"They  might  be  going  on  over  to  Ashcroft,  or 
maybe  to  Aspen,  on  the  other  side  o'  the  Elk 
Mountains.  But  if  that's  their  notion,  they're  due 
to  camp  out  somewhere,  right  soon.  It's  all  o' 
forty  mile  to  the  neardest  of  the  Roaring  Fork 
towns." 

The  engine  tank  was  filled,  and  the  fireman  was 
flinging  the  dripping  spout  to  its  perpendicular. 
Ballard  took  his  seat  again,  and  became  once  more 
immersed  in  his  topographical  studies  of  the  new 
field;  which  was  possibly  why  the  somewhat  sin 
gular  spectacle  of  a  party  of  tourists  hastening  on 
to  meet  night  and  the  untaverned  wilderness  passed 
from  his  mind. 

The  approach  to  the  headquarters  camp  of  the 
Arcadia  Company  skirted  the  right  bank  of  the 
Boiling  Water,  in  this  portion  of  its  course  a  river 
of  the  plain,  eddying  swiftly  between  the  aspen- 
fringed  banks.  But  a  few  miles  farther  on,  where 
the  gentle  undulations  of  the  rich  grass-land  gave 
place  to  bare,  rock-capped  hills,  the  stream  broke 
at  intervals  into  noisy  rapids,  with  deep  pools  to 
mark  the  steps  of  its  descent. 

Ballard's  seat  on  the  fireman's  box  was  on  the 
39 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

wrong  side  for  the  topographical  purpose,  and  he 
crossed  the  cab  to  stand  at  Hoskins's  elbow.  As 
they  were  passing  one  of  the  stillest  of  the  pools, 
the  engineman  said,  with  a  sidewise  jerk  of  his 
thumb: 

"That's  the  place  where  Mr.  Braithwaite  was 
drowned.  Came  down  here  from  camp  to  catch 
a  mess  o'  trout  for  his  supper  and  fell  in — from  the 
far  bank." 

"Couldn't  he  swim?"  Ballard  asked. 

"They  all  say  he  could.  Anyhow,  it  looks  as  if 
he  might  V  got  out  o'  that  little  mill-pond  easy 
enough.  But  he  didn't.  They  found  his  fishing 
tackle  on  the  bank,  and  him  down  at  the  foot  of 
the  second  rapid  below — both  arms  broke  and  the 
top  of  his  head  caved  in,  like  he'd  been  run  through 
a  rock-crusher.  They  can  say  what  they  please; 
I  ain't  believin'  the  river  done  it." 

"What  do  you  believe?"  Ballard  was  looking 
across  to  a  collection  of  low  buildings  and  corrals 
— evidently  the  headquarters  of  the  old  cattle 
king's  ranch  outfit — nestling  in  a  sheltered  cove 
beyond  the  stream,  and  his  question  was  a  half- 
conscious  thought  slipping  into  speech. 

"I  believe  this  whole  blame'  job  is  a  hoodoo," 
was  the  prompt  rejoinder.  And  then,  with  the 
freedom  born  of  long  service  in  the  unfettered 
areas  where  discipline  means  obedience  but  not 

40 


Arcady 

servility,  the  man  added :  "  I  wouldn't  be  standin' 
in  your  shoes  this  minute  for  all  the  money  the 
Arcadia  Company  could  pay  me,  Mr.  Ballard." 

Ballard  was  young,  fit,  vigorous,  and  in  abound 
ing  health.  Moreover,  he  was  a  typical  product 
of  an  age  which  scoffs  at  superstition  and  is  im 
patient  of  all  things  irreducible  to  the  terms  of 
algebraic  formulas.  But  here  and  now,  on  the 
actual  scene  of  the  fatalities,  the  "two  sheer  acci 
dents  and  a  commonplace  tragedy"  were  some 
what  less  easily  dismissed  than  when  he  had  thus 
contemptuously  named  them  for  Gardiner  in  the 
Boston  railway  station.  Notwithstanding,  he  was 
quite  well  able  to  shake  off  the  little  thrill  of  dis 
quietude  and  to  laugh  at  Hoskins's  vicarious 
anxiety. 

"I  wasn't  raised  in  the  woods,  Hoskins,  but 
there  was  plenty  of  tall  timber  near  enough  to 
save  me  from  being  scared  by  an  owl,"  he  assev 
erated.  Then,  as  a  towering  derrick  head  loomed 
gallows-like  in  the  gathering  dusk,  with  a  white 
blotch  of  masonry  to  fill  the  ravine  over  which  it 
stood  sentinel:  "Is  that  our  camp?" 

" That's  Elbow  Canyon,"  said  the  engineman; 
and  he  shut  off  steam  and  woke  the  hill  echoes 
with  the  whistle. 

Ballard  made  out  something  of  the  lay  of  the 
land  at  the  headquarters  while  the  engine  was 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

slowing  through  the  temporary  yard.  There  was 
the  orderly  disorder  of  a  construction  terminal: 
tracks  littered  with  cars  of  material,  a  range 
of  rough  shed  shelters  for  the  stone-cutters,  a 
dotting  of  sleeping-huts  and  adobes  on  a  little 
mesa  above,  and  a  huge,  weathered  mess-tent, 
lighted  within,  and  glowing  orange-hued  in  the 
twilight.  Back  of  the  camp  the  rounded  hills 
grew  suddenly  precipitous,  but  through  the  river 
gap  guarded  by  the  sentinel  derrick,  there  was  a 
vista  distantly  backgrounded  by  the  mass  of  the 
main  range  rising  darkly  under  its  evergreens, 
with  the  lights  of  a  great  house  starring  the  deeper 
shadow. 


"FIRE  IN  THE  ROCK!" 

BROMLEY  was  on  hand  to  meet  his  new  chief 
when  Ballard  dropped  from  the  step  of  the 
halted  engine.  A  few  years  older,  and  browned 
to  a  tender  mahogany  by  the  sun  of  the  altitudes 
and  the  winds  of  the  desert,  he  was  still  the  Brom 
ley  of  Ballard's  college  memories:  compact,  alert, 
boyishly  smiling,  neat,  and  well-groomed.  With 
Anglo-Saxon  ancestry  on  both  sides,  the  meeting 
could  not  be  demonstrative. 

" Same  little  old  '  Beau  Bromley,'"  was  Ballard's 
greeting  to  go  with  the  hearty  hand-grip;  and 
Bromley's  reply  was  in  keeping.  After  which  they 
climbed  the  slope  to  the  mesa  and  the  headquarters 
office  in  comradely  silence,  not  because  there  was 
nothing  to  be  said,  but  because  the  greater  part  of 
it  would  keep. 

Having  picked  up  the  engine  "special"  with  his 
field-glass  as  it  came  down  the  final  zigzag  in  the 
descent  from  the  pass,  Bromley  had  supper  wait 
ing  in  the  adobe-walled  shack  which  served  as  the 

43 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

engineers'  quarters;  and  until  the  pipes  were 
lighted  after  the  meal  there  was  little  talk  save  of 
the  golden  past.  But  when  the  camp  cook  had 
cleared  the  table,  Ballard  reluctantly  closed  the 
book  of  reminiscence  and  gave  the  business  affair 
its  due. 

"How  are  you  coming  on  with  the  work,  Lou- 
don  ?"  he  asked.  "Don't  need  a  chief,  do  you  ?" 

"Don't  you  believe  it!"  said  the  substitute,  with 
such  heartfelt  emphasis  that  Ballard  smiled.  "  I'm 
telling  you  right  now,  Breckenridge,  I  never  was 
so  glad  to  shift  a  responsibility  since  I  was  born. 
Another  month  of  it  alone  would  have  turned  me 
gray." 

"And  yet,  in  my  hearing,  people  are  always  say 
ing  that  you  are  nothing  less  than  a  genius  when 
it  comes  to  handling  workingmen.  Isn't  it  so  ?" 

"Oh,  that  part  of  it  is  all  right.  It's  the  hoodoo 
that  is  making  an  old  man  of  me  before  my  time." 

"The  what?" 

Bromley  moved  uneasily  in  his  chair,  and  Bal 
lard  could  have  sworn  that  he  gave  a  quick  glance 
into  the  dark  corners  of  the  room  before  he  said : 
"I'm  giving  you  the  men's  name  for  it.  But  with 
or  without  a  name,  it  hangs  over  this  job  like  the 
shadow  of  a  devil-bat's  wings.  The  men  sit 
around  and  smoke  and  talk  about  it  till  bedtime, 
and  the  next  day  some  fellow  makes  a  bad  hitch 

44 


"Fire  in  the  Rock!" 

on  a  stone,  or  a  team  runs  away,  or  a  blast  hangs 
fire  in  the  quarry,  and  we  have  a  dead  man  for 
supper.  Breckenridge,  it  is  simply  hell!" 

Ballard  shook  his  head  incredulously. 

"  You've  let  a  few  ill-natured  coincidences  rattle 
you,"  was  his  comment.  "What  is  it?  Or, 
rather,  what  is  at  the  bottom  of  it  ?" 

"I  don't  know;  nobody  knows.  The  'coinci 
dences,'  as  you  call  them,  were  here  when  I  came; 
handed  down  from  Braithwaite's  drowning,  I  sup 
pose.  Then  Sanderson  got  tangled  up  with  Man 
uel's  woman — as  clear  a  case  of  superinduced  in 
sanity  as  ever  existed — and  in  less  than  two  months 
he  and  Manuel  jumped  in  with  Winchesters,  and 
poor  Billy  passed  out.  That  got  on  everybody's 
nerves,  of  course;  and  then  Macpherson  came. 
You  know  what  he  was — a  hard-headed,  sarcastic 
old  Scotchman,  with  the  bitterest  tongue  that  was 
ever  hung  in  the  middle  and  adjusted  to  wag  both 
ways.  He  tried  ridicule;  and  when  that  didn't 
stop  the  crazy  happenings,  he  took  to  bullyragging. 
The  day  the  derrick  fell  on  him  he  was  swearing 
horribly  at  the  hoister  engineer;  and  he  died  with 
an  oath  in  his  mouth." 

The  Kentuckian  sat  back  in  his  chair  with  his 
hands  clasped  behind  his  head. 

"Let  me  get  one  thing  straight  before  you  go  on. 
Mr.  Pelham  told  me  of  a  scrap  between  the  com- 

45 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

pany  and  an  old  fellow  up  here  who  claims  every 
thing  in  sight.  Has  this  emotional  insanity  you 
are  talking  about  anything  to  do  with  the  old 
cattle  king's  objection  to  being  syndicated  out  of 
existence  ?" 

"No;  only  incidentally  in  Sanderson's  affair — 
which,  after  all,  was  a  purely  personal  quarrel  be 
tween  two  men  over  a  woman.  And  I  wouldn't 
care  to  say  that  Manuel  was  wholly  to  blame  in 
that." 

"Who  is  this  Manuel  ?"  queried  Ballard. 

"Oh,  I  thought  you  knew.  He  is  the  colonel's 
manager  and  ranch  foreman.  He  is  a  Mexican 
and  an  all-round  scoundrel,  with  one  lonesome 
good  quality — absolute  and  unimpeachable  loyalty 
to  his  master.  The  colonel  turns  the  entire  busi 
ness  of  the  cattle  raising  and  selling  over  to  him; 
doesn't  go  near  the  ranch  once  a  month  himself." 

"'The  colonel,'"  repeated  Ballard.  "You  call 
him  'the  colonel,'  and  Mr.  Pelham  calls  him  the 
'  King  of  Arcadia.'  I  assume  that  he  has  a  name, 
like  other  men  ?" 

"  Sure ! "  said  Bromley.  "  Hadn't  you  heard  it  ? 
It's  Craigmiles." 

"What!"  exclaimed  Ballard,  holding  the  match 
with  which  he  was  about  to  relight  his  pipe  until 
the  flame  crept  up  and  scorched  his  fingers. 

"That's  it — Craigmiles;    Colonel  Adam  Craig- 


"Fire  in  the  Rock!" 

miles — the  King  of  Arcadia.  Didn't  Mr.  Pelham 
tell  you— 

"Hold  on  a  minute,"  Ballard  cut  in;  and  he  got 
out  of  his  chair  to  pace  back  and  forth  on  his  side 
of  the  table  while  he  was  gathering  up  the  pieces 
scattered  broadcast  by  this  explosive  petard  of  a 
name. 

At  first  he  saw  only  the  clearing  up  of  the  little 
mysteries  shrouding  Miss  Elsa's  suddenly  changed 
plans  for  the  summer;  how  they  were  instantly 
resolved  into  the  commonplace  and  the  obvious. 
She  had  merely  decided  to  come  home  and  play 
hostess  to  her  father's  guests.  And  since  she  knew 
about  the  war  for  the  possession  of  Arcadia,  and 
would  quite  naturally  be  sorry  to  have  her  friend 
pitted  against  her  father,  it  seemed  unnecessary  to 
look  further  for  the  origin  of  Lassley's  curiously 
worded  telegram.  "Lassley's,"  Ballard  called  it; 
but  if  Lassley  had  signed  it,  it  was  fairly  certain 
now  that  Miss  Craigmiles  had  dictated  it. 

Ballard  thought  her  use  of  the  fatalities  as  an 
argument  in  the  warning  message  was  a  purely 
feminine  touch.  None  the  less  he  held  her  as  far 
above  the  influences  of  the  superstitions  as  he  held 
himself,  and  it  was  a  deeper  and  more  reflective 
second  thought  that  turned  a  fresh  leaf  in  the  book 
of  mysteries. 

Was  it  possible  that  the  three  violent  deaths  were 
47 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

not  mere  coincidences,  after  all  ?  And,  admitting 
design,  could  it  be  remotely  conceivable  that  Adam 
Craigmiles's  daughter  was  implicated,  even  to  the 
guiltless  degree  of  suspecting  it  ?  Ballard  stopped 
short  in  his  pacing  sentry  beat  and  began  to  in 
vestigate,  not  without  certain  misgivings. 

"Loudon,  what  manner  of  man  is  this  Colonel 
Craigmiles  ?" 

Bromley's  reply  was  characteristic.  "The  finest 
ever — type  of  the  American  country  gentleman; 
suave,  courteous,  a  little  inclined  to  be  grandilo 
quent;  does  the  paternal  with  you  till  you  catch 
yourself  on  the  edge  of  saying  'sir'  to  him;  and 
has  the  biggest,  deepest,  sweetest  voice  that  ever 
drawled  the  Southern  'r." 

"Humph!  That  isn't  exactly  the  portrait  of  a 
fire-eater." 

"Don't  you  make  any  mistake.  I've  described 
the  man  you'll  meet  socially.  On  the  other  side, 
he's  a  fighter  from  away  back;  the  kind  of  man 
who  makes  no  account  of  the  odds  against  him, 
and  who  doesn't  know  when  he  is  licked.  He  has 
told  us  openly  and  repeatedly  that  he  will  do  us  up 
if  we  swamp  his  house  and  mine;  that  he  will  make 
it  pinch  us  for  the  entire  value  of  our  investment 
in  the  dam.  I  believe  he'll  do  it,  too;  but  Presi 
dent  Pelham  won't  back  down  an  inch.  So  there 
you  are — irresistible  moving  body;  immovable 


'Fire  in  the  Rock!" 

fixed  body:  the  collision  imminent;  and  we  poor 
devils  in  between." 

Ballard  drew  back  his  chair  and  sat  down  again. 
"You  are  miles  beyond  my  depth  now,"  he  as 
serted.  "  I  had  less  than  an  hour  with  Mr.  Pelham 
in  Denver,  and  what  he  didn't  tell  me  would  make 
a  good-sized  library.  Begin  at  the  front,  and  let 
me  have  the  story  of  this  feud  between  the  com 
pany  and  Colonel  Craigmiles." 

Again  Bromley  said:  "I  supposed,  of  course, 
that  you  knew  all  about  it" — after  which  he  sup 
plied  the  missing  details. 

"  It  was  Braithwaite  who  was  primarily  to  blame. 
When  the  company's  plans  were  made  public,  the 
colonel  did  not  oppose  them,  though  he  knew  that 
the  irrigation  scheme  spelled  death  to  the  cattle 
industry.  The  fight  began  when  Braithwaite  lo 
cated  the  dam  here  at  Elbow  Canyon  in  the  foot 
hill  hogback.  There  is  a  better  site  farther  down 
the  river;  a  second  depression  where  an  earthwork 
dike  might  have  taken  the  place  of  all  this  costly 
rockwork." 

"I  saw  it  as  we  came  up  this  evening." 

"Yes.  Well,  the  colonel  argued  for  the  lower 
site;  offered  to  donate  three  or  four  homesteads  in 
it  which  he  had  taken  up  through  his  employees; 
offered  further  to  take  stock  in  the  company;  but 
Braithwaite  was  pig-headed  about  it.  He  had 

49 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

been  a  Government  man,  and  was  a  crank  on  per 
manent  structures  and  things  monumental;  where 
fore  he  was  determined  on  building  masonry.  He 
ignored  the  colonel,  reported  on  the  present  site, 
and  the  work  was  begun." 

"Go  on,"  said  Ballard. 

"Naturally,  the  colonel  took  this  as  a  flat  dec 
laration  of  war.  He  has  a  magnificent  country 
house  in  the  upper  valley,  which  must  have  cost 
him,  at  this  distance  from  a  base  of  supplies,  a 
round  half-million  or  more.  When  we  fill  our 
reservoir,  this  house  will  stand  on  an  island  of  less 
than  a  half-dozen  acres  in  extent,  with  its  orchards, 
lawns,  and  ornamental  grounds  all  under  water. 
Which  the  same  is  tough." 

Ballard  was  Elsa  Craigmiles's  lover,  and  he 
agreed  in  a  single  forcible  expletive.  Bromley  ac 
quiesced  in  the  expletive,  and  went  on. 

"The  colonel  refused  to  sell  his  country-house 
holding,  as  a  matter  of  course;  and  the  company 
decided  to  take  chances  on  the  suit  for  damages 
which  will  naturally  follow  the  flooding  of  the 
property.  Meanwhile,  Braithwaite  had  organised 
his  camp,  and  the  foundations  were  going  in.  A 
month  or  so  later,  he  and  the  colonel  had  a  per 
sonal  collision,  and,  although  Craigmiles  was  old 
enough  to  be  his  father,  Braithwaite  struck  him. 
There  was  blood  on  the  moon,  right  there  and  then, 

50 


"Fire  in  the  Rock!" 

as  you'd  imagine.  The  colonel  was  unarmed,  and 
he  went  home  to  get  a  gun.  Braithwaite,  who  was 
always  a  cold-blooded  brute,  got  out  his  fishing- 
tackle  and  sauntered  off  down  the  river  to  catch  a 
mess  of  trout.  He  never  came  back  alive." 

"Good  heavens!  But  the  colonel  couldn't  have 
had  any  hand  in  Braithwaite's  drowning!"  Ballard 
burst  out,  thinking  altogether  of  Colonel  Craig- 
miles's  daughter. 

"Oh,  no.  At  the  time  of  the  accident,  the 
colonel  was  back  here  at  the  camp,  looking  high 
and  low  for  Braithwaite  with  fire  in  his  eye.  They 
say  he  went  crazy  mad  with  disappointment  when 
he  found  that  the  river  had  robbed  him  of  his  right 
to  kill  the  man  who  had  struck  him." 

Ballard  was  silent  for  a  time.  Then  he  said: 
"You  spoke  of  a  mine  that  would  also  be  flooded 
by  our  reservoir.  What  about  that?" 

"That  came  in  after  Braithwaite's  death  and 
Sanderson's  appointment  as  chief  engineer.  When 
Braithwaite  made  his  location  here,  there  was  an 
old  prospect  tunnel  in  the  hill  across  the  canyon. 
It  was  boarded  up  and  apparently  abandoned,  and 
no  one  seemed  to  know  who  owned  it.  Later  on 
it  transpired  that  the  colonel  was  the  owner,  and 
that  the  mining  claim,  which  was  properly  patented 
and  secured,  actually  covers  the  ground  upon 
which  our  dam  stands.  While  Sanderson  was  busy 

51 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

brewing  trouble  for  himself  with  Manuel,  the  col 
onel  put  three  Mexicans  at  work  in  the  tunnel;  and 
they  have  been  digging  away  there  ever  since." 

"Gold?"  asked  Ballard. 

Bromley  laughed  quietly. 

"Maybe  you  can  find  out — nobody  else  has  been 
able  to.  But  it  isn't  gold;  it  must  be  something 
infinitely  more  valuable.  The  tunnel  is  fortified 
like  a  fortress,  and  one  or  another  of  the  Mexicans 
is  on  guard  day  and  night.  The  mouth  of  the 
tunnel  is  lower  than  the  proposed  level  of  the  dam, 
and  the  colonel  threatens  all  kinds  of  things,  tell 
ing  us  frankly  that  it  will  break  the  Arcadia  Com 
pany  financially  when  we  flood  that  mine.  I  have 
heard  him  tell  Mr.  Pelham  to  his  face  that  the 
water  should  never  flow  over  any  dam  the  company 
might  build  here;  that  he  would  stick  at  nothing 
to  defend  his  property.  Mr.  Pelham  says  all  this 
is  only  blufF;  that  the  mine  is  worthless.  But  the 
fact  remains  that  the  colonel  is  immensely  rich — 
and  is  apparently  growing  richer." 

"Has  nobody  ever  seen  the  inside  of  this  Gol- 
conda  of  a  mine?"  queried  Ballard. 

"Nobody  from  our  side  of  the  fence.  As  I've 
said,  it  is  guarded  like  the  sultan's  seraglio;  and 
the  Mexicans  might  as  well  be  deaf  and  dumb  for 
all  you  can  get  out  of  them.  Macpherson,  who  was 
loyal  to  the  company,  first,  last,  and  all  the  time, 

52 


'Fire  in  the  Rock!" 

had  an  assay  made  from  some  of  the  stuff  spilled 
out  on  the  dump;  but  there  was  nothing  doing,  so 
far  as  the  best  analytical  chemist  in  Denver  could 
find  out." 

For  the  first  time  since  the  strenuous  day  of 
plan-changing  in  Boston,  Ballard  was  almost  sorry 
he  had  given  up  the  Cuban  undertaking. 

"It's  a  beautiful  tangle !"  he  snapped,  thinking, 
one  would  say,  of  the  breach  that  must  be  opened 
between  the  company's  chief  engineer  and  the 
daughter  of  the  militant  old  cattle  king.  Then  he 
changed  the  subject  abruptly. 

"What  do  you  know  about  the  colonel's  house 
hold,  Loudon  ?" 

"All  there  is  to  know,  I  guess.  He  lives  in  state 
in  his  big  country  mansion  that  looks  like  a  World's 
Fair  Forest  Products  Exhibit  on  the  outside,  and  is 
fitted  and  furnished  regardless  of  expense  in  its  in 
teriors.  He  is  a  widower  with  one  daughter — who 
comes  and  goes  as  she  pleases — and  a  sister-in-law 
who  is  the  dearest,  finest  piece  of  fragile  old  china 
you  ever  read  about." 

"You've  been  in  the  country  house,  then?" 

"Oh,  yes.  The  colonel  hasn't  made  it  a  per 
sonal  fight  on  the  working  force  since  Braithwaite's 


time." 


"  Perhaps  you  have  met  Miss — er — the  daughter 
who  comes  and  goes?" 

53 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

"Sure  I  have!  If  you'll  promise  not  to  disci 
pline  me  for  hobnobbing  with  the  enemy,  I'll  con 
fess  that  I've  even  played  duets  with  her.  She  dis 
covered  my  weakness  for  music  when  she  was 
home  last  summer." 

"Do  you  happen  to  know  where  she  is  now  ?" 

"On  her  way  to  Europe,  I  believe.  At  least, 
that  is  what  Miss  Cauffrey — she's  the  fragile-china 
aunt — was  telling  me." 

"I  think  not,"  said  Ballard,  after  a  pause.  "I 
think  she  changed  her  mind  and  decided  to  spend 
the  summer  at  home.  When  we  stopped  at  Acker- 
man's  to  take  water  this  evening,  I  saw  three  loaded 
buckboards  driving  in  this  direction." 

"That  doesn't  prove  anything,"  asserted  Brom 
ley.  "The  old  colonel  has  a  house-party  every 
little  while.  He's  no  anchorite,  if  he  does  live  in 
the  desert." 

Ballard  was  musing  again.  "Adam  Craigmiles," 
he  said,  thoughtfully.  "  I  wonder  what  there  is  in 
that  name  to  set  some  sort  of  bee  buzzing  in  my 
head.  If  I  believed  in  transmigration,  I  should 
say  that  I  had  known  that  name,  and  known  it 
well,  in  some  other  existence." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Bromley.  "It's  not 
such  an  unusual  name." 

"No;  if  it  were,  I  might  trace  it.  How  long  did 
you  say  the  colonel  had  lived  in  Arcadia  ?" 

54 


"Fire  in  the  Rock!" 

"I  didn't  say.  But  it  must  be  something  over 
twenty  years.  Miss  Elsa  was  born  here." 

"And  the  family  is  Southern — from  what  sec 
tion?" 

"  I  don't  know  that — Virginia,  perhaps,  measur 
ing  by  the  colonel's  accent,  pride,  hot-headedness, 
and  reckless  hospitality." 

The  clue,  if  any  there  were,  appeared  to  be  lost; 
and  again  Ballard  smoked  on  in  silence.  When 
the  pipe  burned  out  he  refilled  it,  and  at  the  match- 
striking  instant  a  sing-song  cry  of  "Fire  in  the 
rock!"  floated  down  from  the  hill  crags  above  the 
adobe,  and  the  jar  of  a  near-by  explosion  shook 
the  air  and  rattled  the  windows. 

"What  was  that  ?"  he  queried. 

"It's  our  quarry  gang  getting  out  stone,"  was 
Bromley's  reply.  "We  were  running  short  of 
headers  for  the  tie  courses,  and  I  put  on  a  night- 
shift." 

"Whereabouts  is  your  quarry?" 

"Just  around  the  shoulder  of  the  hill,  and  a 
hundred  feet,  or  such  a  matter,  above  us.  It  is 
far  enough  to  be  out  of  range." 

A  second  explosion  punctuated  the  explanation. 
Then  there  was  a  third  and  still  heavier  shock,  a 
rattling  of  pebbles  on  the  sheet-iron  roof  of  the 
adobe,  and  a  scant  half-second  later  a  fragment  of 
stone  the  size  of  a  man's  head  crashed  through  roof 

55 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

and  ceiling  and  made  kindling-wood  of  the  light 
pine  table  at  which  the  two  men  were  sitting. 
Ballard  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  said  something 
under  his  breath;  but  Bromley  sat  still,  with  a 
faint  yellow  tint  discolouring  the  sunburn  on  his 
face. 

"Which  brings  us  back  to  our  starting-point — 
the  hoodoo,"  he  said  quietly.  "To-morrow  morn 
ing,  when  you  go  around  the  hill  and  see  where 
that  stone  came  from,  you'll  say  that  it  was  a  sheer 
impossibility.  Yet  the  impossible  thing  has  hap 
pened.  It  is  reaching  for  you  now,  Breckenridge; 
and  a  foot  or  two  farther  that  way  would  have- 
He  stopped,  swallowed  hard,  and  rose  unsteadily. 
"For  God's  sake,  old  man,  throw  up  this  cursed 
job  and  get  out  of  here,  while  you  can  do  it  alive!" 

"Not  much!"  said  the  new  chief  contemptu 
ously.  And  then  he  asked  which  of  the  two  bunks 
in  the  adjoining  sleeping-room  was  his. 


VI 
ELBOW  CANYON 

BALLARD  had  his  first  appreciative  view  of 
his  new  field  of  labor  before  breakfast  on  the 
morning  following  his  arrival,  with  Bromley  as  his 
sightsman. 

Viewed  in  their  entirety  by  daylight,  the  topog 
raphies  appealed  irresistibly  to  the  technical  eye; 
and  Ballard  no  longer  wondered  that  Braithwaite 
had  overlooked  or  disregarded  all  other  possible 
sites  for  the  great  dam. 

The  basin  enclosed  by  the  circling  foot-hills  and 
backed  by  the  forested  slopes  of  the  main  range 
was  a  natural  reservoir,  lacking  only  a  compara 
tively  short  wall  of  masonry  to  block  the  crooked 
gap  in  the  hills  through  which  the  river  found  its 
way  to  the  lower  levels  of  the  grass-lands. 

The  gap  itself  was  an  invitation  to  the  engineer. 
Its  rock-bound  slopes  promised  the  best  of  anchor 
ages  for  the  shore-ends  of  the  masonry;  and  at 
its  lower  extremity  a  jutting  promontory  on  the 
right  bank  of  the  stream  made  a  sharp  angle  in  the 

57 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

chasm;  the  elbow  which  gave  the  outlet  canyon 
its  name. 

The  point  or  crook  of  the  elbow,  the  narrowest 
pass  in  the  cleft,  had  been  chosen  as  the  site  for 
the  dam.  Through  the  promontory  a  short  tunnel 
was  driven  at  the  river-level  to  provide  a  diverting 
spillway  for  the  torrent;  and  by  this  simple  ex 
pedient  a  dry  river-bed  in  which  to  build  the  great 
wall  of  concrete  and  masonry  had  been  secured. 

"That  was  Braithwaite's  notion,  I  suppose?" 
said  Ballard,  indicating  the  tunnel  through  which 
the  stream,  now  at  summer  freshet  volume,  thun 
dered  on  its  way  around  the  building  site  to 
plunge  sullenly  into  its  natural  bed  below  the 
promontory.  "Nobody  but  a  Government  man 
would  have  had  the  courage  to  spend  so  much 
time  and  money  on  a  mere  preliminary.  It's  a 
good  notion,  though." 

"I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,"  was  Bromley's  reply. 
"Doylan,  the  rock-boss,  tells  a  fairy-story  about 
the  tunnel  that  will  interest  you  when  you  hear  it. 
He  had  the  contract  for  driving  it,  you  know." 

"What  was  the  story  ?" 

Bromley  laughed.  "You'll  have  to  get  Mike  to 
tell  it,  with  the  proper  Irish  frills.  But  the  gist  of 
it  is  this:  You  know  these  hogback  hills — how 
they  seem  to  be  made  up  of  all  the  geological  odds 
and  ends  left  over  after  the  mountains  were  built. 

58 


Elbow  Canyon 

Mike  swears  they  drove  through  limestone,  sand 
stone,  porphyry,  fire-clay,  chert,  mica-schist,  and 
mud  digging  that  tunnel;  which  the  same,  if  true, 
doesn't  promise  very  well  for  the  foundations  of 
our  dam." 

"But  the  plans  call  for  bed-rock  under  the 
masonry,"  Ballard  objected. 

"Oh,  yes;  and  we  have  it — apparently.  But 
some  nights,  when  I've  lain  awake  listening  to  the 
peculiar  hollow  roar  of  the  water  pounding  through 
that  tunnel,  I've  wondered  if  Doylan's  streak  of 
mud  mightn't  underlie  our  bed-rock." 

Ballard's  smile  was  good-naturedly  tolerant. 

"You'd  be  a  better  engineer,  if  you  were  not  a 
musician,  Loudon.  You  have  too  much  imagina 
tion.  Is  that  the  colonel's  country  house  up  yon 
der  in  the  middle  of  our  reservoir-that-is-to-be  ?" 

"It  is." 

Ballard  focussed  his  field-glass  upon  the  tree- 
dotted  knoll  a  mile  away  in  the  centre  of  the  upper 
valley.  It  was  an  ideal  building  site  for  the  spec 
tacular  purpose.  On  all  sides  the  knoll  sloped 
gently  to  the  valley  level;  and  the  river,  a  placid 
vale-land  stream  in  this  upper  reach,  encircled 
three  sides  of  the  little  hill.  Among  the  trees,  and 
distinguishable  from  them  only  by  its  right  lines 
and  gable  angles,  stood  a  noble  house,  built,  as  it 
seemed,  of  great  tree-trunks  with  the  bark  on. 

59 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

Ballard  could  imagine  the  inspiring  outlook 
from  the  brown-pillared  Greek  portico  facing  west 
ward;  the  majestic  sweep  of  the  enclosing  hills, 
bare  and  with  their  rocky  crowns  worn  into  a  thou 
sand  fantastic  shapes;  the  uplift  of  the  silent,  snow 
capped  mountains  to  right  and  left;  the  vista  of  the 
broad,  outer  valley  opening  through  the  gap  where 
the  dam  was  building. 

:'The  colonel  certainly  had  an  eye  for  the  pict 
uresque  when  he  pitched  upon  that  knoll  for  his 
building-site,"  was  his  comment.  "How  does  he 
•get  the  water  up  there  to  make  all  that  greenery  ?" 

"  Pumps  it,  bless  your  heart!  What  few  modern 
improvements  you  won't  find  installed  at  Castle 
'Cadia  aren't  worth  mentioning.  And,  by  the  way, 
there  is  another  grouch — we're  due  to  drown  his 
power-pumping  and  electric  plant  at  the  portal  of 
the  upper  canyon  under  twenty  feet  of  our  lake. 
More  bad  blood,  and  a  lot  more  damages." 

"Oh,  damn!"  said  Ballard;  and  he  meant  the 
imprecation,  and  not  the  pile  of  masonry  which 
his  predecessors  had  heaped  up  in  the  rocky  chasm 
at  his  feet. 

Bromley  chuckled.  :'That  is  what  the  colonel 
is  apt  to  say  when  you  mention  the  Arcadia  Com 
pany  in  his  hearing.  Do  you  blame  him  so  very 
much?" 

"Not  I.     If  I  owned  a  home  like  that,  in  a  wil- 

60 


Elbow  Canyon 

derness  that  I  had  discovered  for  myself,  I'd  fight 
for  it  to  a  finish.  Last  night  when  you  showed  me 
the  true  inwardness  of  this  mix-up,  I  was  sick  and 
sorry.  If  I  had  known  five  days  ago  what  I  know 
now,  you  couldn't  have  pulled  me  into  it  with  a 
two-inch  rope." 

"On  general  principles?"  queried  Bromley 
curiously. 

"Not  altogether.  Business  is  business;  and 
you've  intimated  that  the  colonel  is  not  so  badly 
overmatched  in  the  money  field — and  when  all  is 
said,  it  is  a  money  fight  with  the  long  purse  to  win. 
But  there  is  a  personal  reason  why  I,  of  all  men 
in  the  world,  should  have  stayed  out.  I  did  not 
know  it  when  I  accepted  Mr.  Pelham's  offer,  and 
now  it  is  too  late  to  back  down.  I'm  a  thousand 
times  sorrier  for  Colonel  Craigmiles  than  ever  you 
can  be,  Loudon;  but,  as  the  chief  engineer  of 
the  Arcadia  Company,  I'm  pledged  to  obliterate 
him." 

"That  is  precisely  what  he  declares  he  will  do 
to  the  company,"  laughed  Bromley.  "And  there," 
—pointing  across  the  ravine  to  an  iron-bound  door 
closing  a  tunnel  entrance  in  the  opposite  hillside — 
"is  his  advanced  battery.  That  is  the  mine  I  was 
telling  you  about." 

"H'm,"  said  the  new  chief,  measuring  the  dis 
tance  with  his  eyes.  "If  that  mining-claim  is  the 

61 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

regulation  size,    it   doesn't   leave   us   much  elbow 
room  over  there." 

"  It  doesn't  leave  us  any — as  I  told  you  last  night, 
the  dam  itself  stands  upon  a  portion  of  the  claim. 
In  equity,  if  there  were  any  equity  in  a  law  fight 
against  a  corporation,  the  colonel  could  enjoin  us 
right  now.  He  hasn't  done  it;  he  has  contented 
himself  with  marking  out  that  dead-line  you  can 
see  over  there  just  above  our  spillway.  The  col 
onel  staked  that  out  in  Billy  Sanderson's  time,  and 
courteously  informed  us  that  trespassers  would  be 
potted  from  behind  that  barricade;  that  there  was 
a  machine-gun  mounted  just  inside  of  that  door 
which  commanded  the  approaches.  Just  to  see  if 
he  meant  what  he  said,  some  of  the  boys  rigged  up 
a  scarecrow  dummy,  and  carefully  pushed  it  over 
the  line  one  evening  after  supper.  I  wasn't  here, 
but  Fitzpatrick  says  the  colonel's  Mexican  garrison 
in  the  tunnel  fairly  set  the  air  afire  with  a  volley 
from  the  machine-gun." 

Ballard  said  "H'm"  again,  and  was  silent  what 
time  they  were  climbing  the  hill  to  the  quarries  on 
their  own  side  of  the  ravine.  When  he  spoke,  it 
was  not  of  the  stone  the  night  shift  had  been 
getting  out. 

"Loudon,  has  it  ever  occurred  to  you  that  the 
colonel's  mine  play  is  a  very  large-sized  trump 
card  ?  We  can  submerge  the  house,  the  grounds, 

62 


Elbow  Canyon 

and  his  improvements  up  yonder  in  the  upper 
canyon  and  know  approximately  how  much  it  is 
going  to  cost  the  company  to  pay  the  bill.  But 
when  the  water  backs  up  into  that  tunnel,  we  are 
stuck  for  whatever  damages  he  cares  to  claim." 

"Sure  thing,"  said  Bromley.  "No  one  on  earth 
will  ever  know  whether  we've  swamped  a  rive- 
million-dollar  mine  or  a  twenty-five-cent  hole  in 
the  ground." 

"That  being  the  case,  I  mean  to  see  the  inside 
of  that  tunnel,"  Ballard  went  on  doggedly.  "I 
am  sorry  I  allowed  Mr.  Pelham  to  let  me  in  for 
this;  but  in  justice  to  the  people  who  pay  my 
salary,  I  must  know  what  we  are  up  against  over 
there." 

"I  don't  believe  you  will  make  any  bad  breaks 
in  that  direction,"  Bromley  suggested.  "  If  you  try 
it  by  main  strength  and  awkwardness,  as  Mac- 
pherson  did,  you'll  get  what  he  very  narrowly 
escaped — a  young  lead  mine  started  inside  of  you 
by  one  of  the  colonel's  Mexican  bandits.  If  you 
try  it  any  other  way,  the  colonel  will  be  sure  to 
spot  you;  and  you  go  out  of  his  good  books  and 
Miss  Elsa's — no  invitations  to  the  big  house,  no 
social  alleviations,  no  ice-cream  and  cake,  no 
heavenly  summer  nights  when  you  can  sit  out  on 
the  Greek-pillared  portico  with  a  pretty  girl,  and 
forget  for  the  moment  that  you  are  a  buccaneering 

63 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

bully  of  labouring  men,  marooned,  with  a  lot  of 
dry-land  pirates  like  yourself,  in  tbe  Arcadia  des 
ert.  No,  my  dear  Breckenridge;  I  think  it  is 
safe  to  prophesy  that  you  won't  do  anything  you 
say  you  will." 

"Won't  I?"  growled  the  new  chief,  looking  at 
his  watch.  Then:  "Let's  go  down  to  breakfast." 
And,  with  a  sour  glance  at  the  hill  over  which  the 
roof-smashing  rock  of  the  previous  night  must 
have  been  hurled:  "Don't  forget  to  tell  Quinlan 
to  be  a  little  more  sparing  with  his  powder  up  here. 
Impress  it  on  his  mind  that  he  is  getting  out  build 
ing  stone — not  shooting  the  hill  down  for  con 


crete." 


64 


VII 
THE  POLO  PLAYERS 

BALLARD  gave  the  Saturday,  his  first  day  in 
in  the  new  field,  to  Bromley  and  the  work  on 
the  dam,  inspecting,  criticising,  suggesting  changes, 
and  otherwise  adjusting  the  wheels  of  the  com 
plicated  constructing  mechanism  at  the  Elbow 
Canyon  nerve  centre  to  run  efficiently  and 
smoothly,  and  at  accelerated  speed. 

"That's  about  all  there  is  to  say,"  he  summed 
up  to  his  admiring  assistant,  at  the  close  of  his  first 
administrative  day.  "  You're  keyed  up  to  concert 
pitch  all  right,  here,  and  the  tempo  is  not  so  bad. 
But  'drive'  is  the  word,  Loudon.  Wherever  you 
see  a  chance  to  cut  a  corner,  cut  it.  The  Fitz- 
patricks  are  a  little  inclined  to  be  slow  and  sure: 
crowd  the  idea  into  old  Brian's  head  that  bonuses 
are  earned  by  being  swift  and  sure." 

"Which  means  that  you're  not  going  to  stay 
here  and  drive  the  stone  and  concrete  gangs  your 
self?"  queried  Bromley. 

"That  is  what  it  means,  for  the  present,"  replied 

65 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

the  new  chief;  and  at  daybreak  Monday  morning 
he  was  off,  bronco-back,  to  put  in  a  busy  fortnight 
quartering  the  field  in  all  directions  and  getting  in 
touch  with  the  various  subcontractors  at  the  many 
subsidiary  camps  of  ditch  diggers  and  railroad 
builders  scattered  over  the  length  and  breadth  of 
the  Kingdom  of  Arcadia. 

On  one  of  the  few  nights  when  he  was  able  to 
return  to  the  headquarters  camp  for  supper  and 
lodging,  Bromley  proposed  a  visit  to  Castle  'Cadia. 
Ballard's  refusal  was  prompt  and  decided. 

"No,  Loudon;  not  for  me,  yet  a  while.  I'm 
too  tired  to  be  anybody's  good  company,"  was  the 
form  the  refusal  took.  "  Go  gossiping,  if  you  feel 
like  it,  but  leave  me  out  of  the  social  game  until  I 
get  a  little  better  grip  on  the  working  details. 
Later  on,  perhaps,  I'll  go  with  you  and  pay  my 
respects  to  Colonel  Craigmiles — but  not  to-night." 

Bromley  went  alone  and  found  that  Ballard's 
guess  based  upon  his  glimpse  of  the  loaded  buck- 
boards  en  route  was  borne  out  by  the  facts.  Castle 
'Cadia  was  comfortably  rilled  with  a  summer  house- 
party;  and  Miss  Craigmiles  had  given  up  her 
European  yachting  voyage  to  come  home  and  play 
the  hostess  to  her  father's  guests. 

Also,  Bromley  discovered  that  the  colonel's 
daughter  drew  her  own  conclusions  from  Ballard's 
refusal  to  present  himself,  the  discovery  develop- 

66 


The  Polo  Players 

ing  upon  Miss  Elsa's  frank  statement  of  her  con 
victions. 

"I  know  your  new  tyrant,"  she  laughed;  "I 
have  known  him  for  ages.  He  won't  come  to 
Castle  'Cadia;  he  is  afraid  we  might  make  him 
disloyal  to  his  Arcadia  Irrigation  salt.  You  may 
tell  him  I  said  so,  if  you  happen  to  remember  it." 

Bromley  did  remember  it,  but  it  was  late  when 
he  returned  to  the  camp  at  the  canyon,  and  Bal- 
lard  was  asleep.  And  the  next  morning  the  dili 
gent  new  chief  was  mounted  and  gone  as  usual 
long  before  the  "turn-out"  whistle  blew;  for  which 
cause  Miss  Elsa's  challenge  remained  undelivered; 
was  allowed  to  lie  until  the  dust  of  intervening 
busy  days  had  quite  obscured  it. 

It  was  on  these  scouting  gallops  to  the  outlying 
camps  that  Ballard  defined  the  limits  of  the 
"hoodoo."  Its  influence,  he  found,  diminished 
proportionately  as  the  square  of  the  distance  from 
the  headquarters  camp  at  Elbow  Canyon.  But  in 
the  wider  field  there  were  hindrances  of  another 
and  more  tangible  sort. 

Bourke  Fitzpatrick,  the  younger  of  the  brothers 
in  the  contracting  firm,  was  in  charge  of  the  ditch 
digging;  and  he  had  irritating  tales  to  tell  of  the 
lawless  doings  of  Colonel  Craigmiles's  herdsmen. 

"I'm  telling  you,  Mr.  Ballard,  there  isn't  any 
thing  them  devils  won't  be  up  to,"  he  complained, 

67 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

not  without  bitterness.  "One  night  they'll  un 
couple  every  waggon  on  the  job  and  throw  the 
coupling-pins  away;  and  the  next,  maybe,  they'll 
be  stampeding  the  mules.  Two  weeks  ago,  on 
Dan  Moriarty's  section,  they  came  with  men  and 
horses  in  the  dead  of  night,  hitched  up  the  scra 
pers,  and  put  a  thousand  yards  of  earth  back  into 
the  ditch." 

"Wear  it  out  good-naturedly,  if  you  can,  Bourke; 
it  is  only  horse-play,"  was  Ballard's  advice.  That 
grown  men  should  seriously  hope  to  defeat  the 
designs  of  a  great  corporation  by  any  such  puerile 
means  was  inconceivable. 

"Horse-play,  is  it?"  snapped  Fitzpatrick. 
"Don't  you  believe  it,  Mr.  Ballard.  I  can  take  a 
joke  with  any  man  living;  but  this  is  no  joke.  It 
comes  mighty  near  being  war — with  the  scrapping 
all  on  one  side." 

"A  night  guard  ?"  suggested  Ballard. 

Fitzpatrick  shook  his  head. 

"We've  tried  that;  and  you'll  not  get  a  man  to 
patrol  the  work  since  Denny  Flaherty  took  his 
medicine.  The  cow-punchers  roped  him  and 
skidded  him  'round  over  the  prairie  till  it  took 
one  of  the  men  a  whole  blessed  day  to  dig  the 
cactus  thorns  out  of  him.  And  me  paying  both 
of  them  overtime.  Would  you  call  that  a  joke  ?" 

Ballard's  reply  revealed  some  latent  doubt  as 
68 


The  Polo  Players 

to  the  justification  for  Bromley's  defense  of  Col 
onel  Craigmiles's  fighting  methods. 

"  If  it  isn't  merely  rough  horse-play,  it  is  guer 
rilla  warfare,  as  you  say,  Bourke.  Have  you  seen 
anything  to  make  you  believe  that  these  fellows 
have  a  tip  from  the  big  house  in  the  upper  valley  ?" 

The  contractor  shook  his  head. 

"The  colonel  doesn't  figure  in  the  details  of  the 
cow  business  at  all,  as  far  as  anybody  can  see.  He 
turns  it  all  over  to  Manuel,  his  Mexican  fore 
man;  and  Manuel  is  in  this  guerrilla  deviltry  as 
big  as  anybody.  Flaherty  says  he'll  take  his  oath 
that  the  foreman  was  with  the  gang  that  roped 
him." 

Ballard  was  feeling  less  peaceable  when  he  rode 
on  to  the  next  camp,  and  as  he  made  the  round  of 
the  northern  outposts  the  fighting  strain  which  had 
come  down  to  him  from  his  pioneer  ancestors 
began  to  assert  itself  in  spite  of  his  efforts  to  con 
trol  it.  At  every  stopping-place  Fitzpatrick's  com 
plaint  was  amplified.  Depredations  had  followed 
each  other  with  increasing  frequency  since  Mac- 
pherson's  death;  and  once,  when  one  of  the  sub 
contractors  had  been  provoked  into  resistance, 
arms  had  been  used  and  a  free  fight  had  ensued. 

Turning  the  matter  over  in  his  mind  in  growing 
indignation,  Ballard  had  determined,  by  the  time 
he  had  made  the  complete  round  of  the  outlying 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

camps,  upon  the  course  he  should  pursue.  "  I'll 
run  a  sheriff's  posse  in  here  and  clean  up  the  en 
tire  outfit;  that's  about  what  I'll  do!"  he  was  say 
ing  wrathfully  to  himself  as  he  galloped  eastward 
on  the  stage  trail  late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  final 
day.  "The  Lord  knows  I  don't  want  to  make  a 
blood-feud  of  it,  but  if  they  will  have  it — 

The  interruption  was  a  little  object-lesson  illus 
trating  the  grievances  of  the  contractors.  Roughly 
paralleling  the  stage  trail  ran  the  line  of  the  pro 
posed  southern  lateral  canal,  marked  by  its  double 
row  of  location  stakes.  At  a  turn  in  the  road 
Ballard  came  suddenly  upon  what  appeared  to  be 
an  impromptu  game  of  polo. 

Flap-hatted  herdsmen  in  shaggy  overalls,  and 
swinging  long  clubs  in  lieu  of  polo  sticks,  were 
riding  in  curious  zigzags  over  the  canal  course,  and 
bending  for  a  drive  at  each  right  and  left  swerve  of 
their  wiry  little  mounts.  It  took  the  Kentuckian 
a  full  minute  to  master  the  intricacies  of  the  game. 
Then  he  saw  what  was  doing.  The  location  stakes 
for  the  ditch  boundaries  were  set  opposite  and  al 
ternate,  and  the  object  of  the  dodging  riders  was 
to  determine  which  of  them  could  club  the  greatest 
number  of  stakes  out  of  the  ground  without  missing 
a  blow  or  drawing  rein. 

Ballard  singled  out  the  leader,  a  handsome, 
well-built  caballero,  with  the  face,  figure,  and 

70 


The  Polo  Players 

saddle-seat  of  the  Cid,  and  rode  into  the  thick  of 
things,  red  wrath  to  the  fore. 

"Hi!  you  there!"  he  shouted.  "Is  your  name 
Manuel?" 

"£/,  Senor,'9  was  the  mild  reply;  and  the  cava 
lier  took  off  his  bullion-corded  sombrero  and  bowed 
to  the  saddle-horn. 

"Well,  mine  is  Ballard,  and  I  am  the  chief  en 
gineer  for  the  Arcadia  Company." 

"Ha!  Senor  Ballar',  I  am  ver'  much  delight  to 
meet  you." 

"Never  mind  that;  the  pleasure  isn't  mutual, 
by  a  damned  sight.  You  tell  your  men  to  stop 
that  monkey-business,  and  have  them  put  those 
stakes  back  where  they  found  them."  Ballard 
was  hot. 

"You  give-a  the  h-order  in  this  valley,  senor?" 
asked  the  Mexican  softly. 

"I  do,  where  the  company's  property  is  con 
cerned.  Call  your  men  off!" 

"Senor  Ballar',  I  have  biffo  to-day  killed  a  man 
for  that  he  spik  to  me  like-a  that!" 

"Have  you?"  snorted  Ballard  contemptuously. 
"Well,  you  won't  kill  me.  Call  your  men  off,  I 
say!" 

There  was  no  need.  The  makeshift  polo  game 
had  paused,  and  the  riders  were  gathering  about 
the  quarrelling  two. 

71 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

"  Bat  your  left  eye  once,  and  we'll  rope  him  for 
you,  Manuel,"  said  one. 

"Wonder  if  I  c'd  knock  a  two-bagger  with 
that  hat  o'  his'n  without  mussin'  his  hair?"  said 
another. 

"Say,  you  fellers,  wait  a  minute  till  I  make  that 
bronc'  o'  his'n  do  a  cake-walk !"  interposed  a  third, 
casting  the  loop  of  his  riata  on  the  ground  so  that 
Ballard's  horse  would  be  thrown  if  he  lifted  hoof. 

It  was  an  awkward  crisis,  and  the  engineer  stood 
to  come  off  with  little  credit.  He  was  armed,  but 
even  in  the  unfettered  cattle  country  one  cannot 
pistol  a  laughing  jeer.  It  was  the  saving  sense  of 
humour  that  came  to  his  aid,  banishing  red  wrath. 
There  was  no  malice  in  the  jeers. 

"Sail  in  when  you're  ready,  boys/'  he  laughed. 
"I  fight  for  my  brand  the  same  as  you'd  fight  for 
yours.  Those  pegs  have  got  to  go  back  in  the 
ground  where  you  found  them." 

One  of  the  flap-hatted  riders  dropped  his  reins, 
drummed  with  his  elbows,  and  crowed  lustily. 
The  foreman  backed  his  horse  deftly  out  of  the 
enclosing  ring;  and  the  man  nearest  to  Ballard 
on  the  right  made  a  little  cast  of  his  looped  rope, 
designed  to  whip  Ballard's  pistol  out  of  its  holster. 
If  the  engineer  had  been  the  tenderfoot  they  took 
him  for,  the  trouble  would  have  culminated  quickly. 

With  the  laugh  still  on  his  lips,  the  Kentuckian 
72 


•3 


The  Polo  Players 

was  watching  every  move  of  the  Mexican.  There 
was  bloodthirst,  waiting  only  for  the  shadow  of  an 
excuse,  glooming  in  the  handsome  black  eyes. 
Ballard  remembered  Sanderson's  fate,  and  a  quick 
thrill  of  racial  sympathy  for  the  dead  man  tuned 
him  to  the  fighting  pitch.  He  knew  he  was  con 
fronting  a  treacherous  bully  of  the  type  known  to 
the  West  as  a  "killer";  a  man  whose  regard  for 
human  life  could  be  accurately  .and  exactly  meas 
ured  by  his  chance  for  escaping  the  penalty  for  its 
taking. 

It  was  at  this  climaxing  moment,  while  Ballard 
was  tightening  his  eye-hold  upon  the  one  danger 
ous  antagonist,  and  foiling  with  his  free  hand  the 
attempts  of  the  playful  "Scotty"  at  his  right  to 
disarm  him,  that  the  diversion  came.  A  cloud  of 
dust  on  the  near-by  stage  trail  resolved  itself  into  a 
fiery-red,  purring  motor-car  with  a  single  occupant; 
and  a  moment  later  the  car  had  left  the  road  and 
was  heading  across  the  grassy  interspace. 

Manuel's  left  hand  was  hovering  above  his 
pistol-butt;  and  Ballard  took  his  eyes  from  the 
menace  long  enough  to  glance  aside  at  the  ap 
proaching  motorist.  He  was  a  kingly  figure  of  a 
man  well  on  in  years,  white-haired,  ruddy  of  face, 
with  huge  military  mustaches  and  a  goatee.  He 
brought  the  car  with  a  skilful  turn  into  the  midst  of 
things;  and  Ballard,  confident  now  that  the 

73 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

Mexican  foreman  no  longer  needed  watching,  saw 
a  singular  happening. 

While  one  might  count  two,  the  old  man  in  the 
motor-car  stared  hard  at  him,  rose  in  his  place 
behind  the  steering-wheel,  staggered,  groped  with 
his  hands  as  the  blind  grope,  and  then  fell  back 
into  the  driving-seat  with  a  groan. 

Ballard  was  off  his  horse  instantly,  tendering  his 
pocket-flask.  But  the  old  man's  indisposition 
seemed  to  pass  as  suddenly  as  it  had  come. 

"  Thank  you,  suh,"  he  said  in  a  voice  that 
boomed  for  its  very  depth  and  sweetness;  "I 
reckon  I've  been  driving  a  little  too  fast.  Youh— 
youh  name  is  Ballard — Breckenridge  Ballard,  isn't 
it?"  he  inquired  courteously,  completely  ignoring 
the  dissolving  ring  of  practical  jokers. 

"It  is.     And  you  are  Colonel  Craigmiles?" 

"At  youh  service,  suh;  entiahly  at  youh  service. 
I  should  have  known  you  anywhere  for  a  Ballard. 
Youh  mother  was  a  Hardaway,  but  you  don't  take 
after  that  side.  No,  suh" — with  calm  delibera 
tion — "you  are  youh  father's  son,  Mistah  Bal 
lard/'  Then,  as  one  coming  at  a  bound  from  the 
remote  past  to  the  present:  "Was  thah  any — ah — 
little  discussion  going  on  between  you  and — ah— 
Manuel,  Mistuh  Ballard?" 

Five  minutes  earlier  the  engineer  had  been  angry 
enough  to  prefer  spiteful  charges  against  the  polo 

74 


The  Polo  Players 

players  all  and  singular.  But  the  booming  of  the 
deep  voice  had  a  curiously  mollifying  effect. 

"  It  is  hardly  worth  mentioning,"  he  found  him 
self  replying.  "  I  was  protesting  to  your  foreman 
because  the  boys  were  having  a  little  game  of  polo 
at  our  expense — knocking  our  location  stakes  out 
of  the  ground." 

The  kingly  old  man  in  the  motor-car  drew  him 
self  up,  and  there  was  a  mild  explosion  directed  at 
the  Mexican  foreman. 

"Manuel,  I'm  suhprised — right  much  suhprised 
and  humiliated,  suh!  I  thought  it  was — ah — dis 
tinctly  undehstood  that  all  this  schoolboy  triflin* 
was  to  be  stopped.  Let  me  heah  no  more  of  it. 
And  see  that  these  heah  stakes  are  replaced;  care 
fully  replaced,  if  you  please,  suh."  And  then  to 
the  complainant:  "I'm  right  sorry,  I  assure  you, 
Mistuh  Ballard.  Let  me  prove  it  by  carrying  you 
off  to  dinneh  with  us  at  Castle  'Cadia.  Grigsby, 
heah,  will  lead  youh  horse  to  camp,  and  fetch  any 
little  necessaries  you  might  care  to  send  for.  In 
dulge  me,  suh,  and  let  me  make  amends.  My 
daughter  speaks  of  you  so  often  that  I  feel  we  ought 
to  be  mo'  friendly." 

Under  much  less  favourable  conditions  it  is  con 
ceivable  that  the  Kentuckian  would  have  over 
ridden  many  barriers  for  the  sake  of  finding  the 
open  door  at  Castle  'Cadia.  And,  the  tour  of  in- 

75 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

spection  being  completed,  there  was  no  special  duty 
call  to  sound  a  warning. 

"I  shall  be  delighted,  I'm  sure,"  he  burbled, 
quite  like  an  infatuated  lover;  and  when  the  cow 
boy  messenger  was  charged  with  the  errand  to  the 
headquarters  camp,  Ballard  took  his  place  beside 
the  company's  enemy,  and  the  car  was  sent  purring 
across  to  the  hill-skirting  stage  road. 


VIII 
CASTLE  'CADIA 

TT  was  a  ten-mile  run  to  the  bowl-shaped  valley 
JL  behind  the  foot-hills;  and  Colonel  Craigmiles, 
mindful,  perhaps,  of  his  late  seizure,  did  not  speed 
the  motor-car. 

Recalling  it  afterward,  Ballard  remembered 
that  the  talk  was  not  once  suffered  to  approach  the 
conflict  in  which  he  and  his  host  were  the  principal 
antagonists.  Miss  Elsa's  house-party,  the  match 
less  climate  of  Arcadia,  the  scenery,  Ballard's  own 
recollections  of  his  Kentucky  boyhood — all  these 
were  made  to  do  duty;  and  the  colonel's  smile  was 
so  winning,  his  deep  voice  so  sympathetic,  and  his 
attitude  so  affectionately  paternal,  that  Ballard 
found  his  mental  picture  of  a  fierce  old  frontiers 
man  fighting  for  his  squatter  rights  fading  to  the 
vanishing  point. 

"Diplomacy/5  Mr.  Pelham  had  suggested;  and 
Ballard  smiled  inwardly.  If  it  came  to  a  crossing 
of  diplomatic  weapons  with  this  keen-eyed,  gentle- 
voiced  patriarch,  who  seemed  bent  on  regarding 

77 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

him  as  an  honoured  guest,  the  company's  cause 
was  as  good  as  lost. 

The  road  over  which  the  motor-car  was  silently 
trundling  avoided  the  headquarters  camp  at  the 
dam  by  several  miles,  losing  itself  among  the  hog 
back  foot-hills  well  to  the  southward,  and  ap 
proaching  the  inner  valley  at  right  angles  to  the 
course  of  the  river  and  the  railway. 

The  sun  had  sunk  behind  the  western  mountain 
barrier  and  the  dusk  was  gathering  when  the 
colonel  quickened  the  pace,  and  the  car  topped  the 
last  of  the  hills  in  a  staccato  rush.  Ballard  heard 
the  low  thunder  of  the  Boiling  Water  in  its  upper 
canyon,  and  had  glimpses  of  weird  shapes  of 
eroded  sandstone  looming  in  huge  pillars  and 
fantastic  mushroom  figures  in  the  growing  dark 
ness. 

Then  the  lights  of  Castle  'Cadia  twinkled  in 
their  tree-setting  at  the  top  of  the  little  knoll;  the 
drought-hardened  road  became  a  gravelled  car 
riage-drive  under  the  pneumatic  tires;  and  a  final 
burst  of  speed  sent  the  car  rocketing  to  the  sum 
mit  of  the  knoll  through  a  maple-shadowed  avenue. 

The  great  tree-trunk-pillared  portico  of  the 
country  house  was  deserted  when  the  colonel  cut 
out  the  motor-battery  switch  at  the  carriage  step. 
But  a  moment  later  a  white-gowned  figure  ap 
peared  in  the  open  doorway,  and  the  colonel's 

78 


Castle  'Cadia 

daughter  came  to  the  step,  to  laugh  gayly,  and  to 
say: 

"Why,  Mr.  Ballard,  I'm  astounded!  Have  you 
really  decided  that  it  is  quite  safe  to  trust  yourself 
in  the  camp  of  the  enemy  ?" 

Ballard  had  seen  Castle  'Cadia  at  field-glass 
range;  and  he  had  Bromley's  enthusiastic  de 
scription  of  the  house  of  marvels  to  push  anticipa 
tion  some  little  distance  along  the  way  to  meet  the 
artistic  reality.  None  the  less,  the  reality  came 
with  the  shock  of  the  unexpected. 

In  the  softened  light  of  the  shaded  electric  pen 
dants,  the  massive  pillars  of  the  portico  appeared  as 
single  trees  standing  as  they  had  grown  in  the 
mountain  forest.  Underfoot  the  floor  was  of  hewn 
tree-trunks;  but  the  house  walls,  like  the  pillars, 
were  of  logs  in  the  rough,  cunningly  matched  and 
fitted  to  conceal  the  carpentry. 

A  man  had  come  to  take  the  automobile,  and  the 
colonel  paused  to  call  attention  to  a  needed  adjust 
ment  of  the  motor.  Ballard  made  use  of  the  iso 
lated  moment. 

"I  have  accounted  for  you  at  last,"  he  said,  pro 
longing  the  greeting  hand-clasp  to  the  ultimate 
limit.  "  I  know  now  what  has  made  you  what  you 
are." 

"Really?"  she  questioned  lightly.  "And  all 
these  years  I  have  been  vainly  imagining  that  I 

79 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

had  acquired  the  manner  of  the  civilized  East! 
Isn't  it  pathetic  ?" 

"Very,"  he  agreed  quite  gravely.  "But  the 
pathos  is  all  on  my  side." 

"Meaning  that  I  might  let  you  go  and  dress  for 
dinner  ?  I  shall.  Enter  the  house  of  the  enemy, 
Mr.  Ballard.  A  cow-punching  princess  bids  you 
welcome." 

She  was  looking  him  fairly  in  the  eyes  when  she 
said  it,  and  he  acquitted  her  doubtfully  of  the  charge 
of  intention.  But  her  repetition,  accidental  or  in 
cidental,  of  his  own  phrase  was  sufficiently  discon 
certing  to  make  him  awkwardly  silent  while  she 
led  the  way  into  the  spacious  reception-hall. 

Here  the  spell  of  the  enchantments  laid  fresh 
hold  on  him.  The  rustic  exterior  of  the  great 
house  was  only  the  artistically  designed  contrast- 
within  were  richness,  refinement,  and  luxury  un 
bounded.  The  floors  were  of  polished  wood,  and 
the  rugs  were  costly  Daghestans.  Beyond  por 
tieres  of  curious  Indian  bead-work,  there  were 
vistas  of  harmonious  interiors;  carved  furnishings, 
beamed  and  panelled  ceilings,  book-lined  walls. 
The  light  everywhere  came  from  the  softly  tinted 
electric  globes.  There  was  a  great  stone  fireplace 
in  the  hall,  but  radiators  flanked  the  openings, 
giving  an  added  touch  of  modernity. 

Ballard  pulled  himself  together  and  strove  to 
80 


Castle  'Cadia 

recall  the  fifty-mile,  sky-reaching  mountain  barrier 
lying  between  all  this  twentieth-century  country- 
house  luxury  and  the  nearest  outpost  of  urban 
civilisation.  It  asked  for  a  tremendous  effort; 
and  the  realising  anchor  dragged  again  when  Miss 
Craigmiles  summoned  a  Japanese  servant  and 
gave  him  in  charge. 

"Show  Mr.  Ballard  to  the  red  room,  Tagawi," 
she  directed.  And  then  to  the  guest:  "We  dine 
at  seven — as  informally  as  you  please.  You  will 
find  your  bag  in  your  room,  and  Tagawi  will  serve 
you.  As  you  once  told  me  when  I  teased  you  in 
your  Boston  workshop — *  If  you  don't  see  what  you 
want,  ask  for  it." 

The  Kentuckian  followed  his  guide  up  the  broad 
stair  and  through  a  second-floor  corridor  which 
abated  no  jot  of  the  down-stair  magnificence. 
Neither  did  his  room,  for  that  matter.  Hangings 
of  Pompeian  red  gave  it  its  name;  and  it  was 
spacious  and  high-studded,  and  critically  up  to 
date  in  its  appointments. 

The  little  brown  serving-man  deftly  opened  the 
bag  brought  by  the  colonel's  messenger  from  Bal- 
lard's  quarters  at  the  Elbow  Canyon  camp,  and 
laid  out  the  guest's  belongings.  That  done,  he 
opened  the  door  of  the  bath.  "The  honourable 
excellency  will  observe  the  hot  water;  also  cold. 
Are  the  orders  other  for  me  ?" 

81 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

Ballard  shook  his  head,  dismissed  the  smiling 
little  man,  and  turned  on  the  water. 

"  I  reckon  I'd  better  take  it  cold,"  he  said  to  him 
self;  "then  I'll  know  certainly  whether  I'm  awake 
or  dreaming.  By  Jove!  but  this  place  is  a  poem! 
I  don't  wonder  that  the  colonel  is  fighting  Berserk 
to  save  it  alive.  And  Mr.  Pelham  and  his  million 
aires  come  calmly  up  to  the  counter  and  offer  to 
buy  it — with  mere  money!" 

He  filled  the  porcelain  bath  with  a  crystal-clear 
flood  that,  measured  by  its  icy  temperature,  might 
have  been  newly  distilled  glacier  drip;  and  the 
cold  plunge  did  something  toward  establishing  the 
reality  of  things.  But  the  incredibilities  promptly 
reasserted  themselves  when  he  went  down  a  little 
in  advance  of  the  house-party  guests,  and  met  Elsa, 
and  was  presented  to  a  low-voiced  lady  with  silvery 
hair  and  the  face  of  a  chastened  saint,  named  to 
him  as  Miss  Cauffrey,  but  addressed  by  Elsa  as 
"Aunt  June." 

"I  hope  you  find  yourself  somewhat  refreshed, 
Mr.  Ballard,"  said  the  sweet-voiced  chatelaine. 
"Elsa  tells  me  you  have  been  in  the  tropics,  and 
our  high  altitudes  must  be  almost  distressing  at 
first;  I  know  I  found  them  so." 

"Really,  I  hadn't  noticed  the  change,"  returned 
Ballard  rather  vaguely.  Then  he  bestirred  him 
self,  and  tried  to  live  up  to  the  singularly  out-of- 

82 


Castle  'Cadia 

place  social  requirements.  "I'm  not  altogether 
new  to  the  altitudes,  though  I  haven't  been  in  the 
West  for  the  past  year  or  two.  For  that  matter, 
I  can't  quite  realise  that  I  am  in  the  West  at  this 
moment — at  least  in  the  uncitied  part." 

Miss  Cauffrey  smiled,  and  the  king's  daughter 
laughed  softly. 

"It  does  me  so  much  good!"  she  declared,  mock 
ing  him.  "All  through  that  dining-car  dinner  on 
the  'Overland  Flyer'  you  were  trying  to  reconcile 
me  with  the  Western  barbarities.  Didn't  you 
say  something  about  being  hopeful  because  I  was 
aware  of  the  existence  of  an  America  west  of  the 
Alleghanies?" 

"Please  let  me  down  as  easily  as  you  can,'? 
pleaded  the  engineer.  "You  must  remember 
that  I  am  only  a  plain  workingman." 

"  You  are  come  to  take  poor  Mr.  Macpherson's 
place?"  queried  Miss  Cauffrey;  which  was  Bal- 
lard's  first  intimation  that  the  Arcadian  promotion 
scheme  was  not  taboo  by  the  entire  household  of 
Castle  'Cadia. 

"That  is  what  I  supposed  I  was  doing,  up  to 
this  evening.  But  it  seems  that  I  have  stumbled 
into  fairyland  instead." 

"No,"  said  the  house-daughter,  laughing  at  him 
again — "only  into  the  least  Arcadian  part  of  Ar 
cadia.  And  after  dinner  you  will  be  free  to  go 

83 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

where  you  are  impatient  to  be  at  this  very  mo 


ment." 


"I  don't  know  about  that,"  was  Ballard's  re 
joinder.  "I  was  just  now  wondering  if  I  could 
be  heroic  enough  to  go  contentedly  from  all  this  to 
my  adobe  shack  in  the  construction  camp." 

Miss  Craigmiles  mocked  him  again. 

"My  window  in  the  Alta  Vista  sleeper  chanced 
to  be  open  that  night  while  the  train  was  standing 
in  the  Denver  station.  Didn't  I  hear  Mr.  Pelham 
say  that  the  watchword — your  watchword — was  to 
be  *  drive,'  for  every  man,  minute,  and  dollar  there 
was  in  it  ?" 

Ballard  said,  "Oh,  good  Lord!"  under  his 
breath,  and  a  hot  flush  rose  to  humiliate  him, 
in  spite  of  his  efforts  to  keep  it  down.  Now  it 
was  quite  certain  that  her  word  of  welcome  was 
not  a  mere  coincidence.  She  had  overheard  that 
brutal  and  uncalled-for  boast  of  his  about  making 
love  to  "the  cow-punching  princesses";  and  this 
was  his  punishment. 

It  was  a  moment  for  free  speech  of  the  explana 
tory  sort,  but  Miss  CaufFrey's  presence  forbade  it. 
So  he  could  only  say,  in  a  voice  that  might  have 
melted  a  heart  of  stone:  "I  am  wholly  at  your 
mercy — and  I  am  your  guest.  You  shouldn't  step 
on  a  man  when  he's  down.  It  isn't  Christian." 

Whether  she  would  have  stepped  on  him  or  not 


Castle  'Cadia 

was  left  a  matter  indeterminate,  since  the  members 
of  the  house-party  were  coming  down  by  twos  and 
threes,  and  shortly  afterward  dinner  was  an 
nounced. 

By  this  time  Ballard  was  growing  a  little  hard 
ened  to  the  surprises;  and  the  exquisitely  ap 
pointed  dining-room  evoked  only  a  left-over  thrill. 
And  at  dinner,  in  the  intervals  allowed  him  by  Miss 
Dosia  Van  Bryck,  who  was  his  table  companion, 
there  were  other  things  to  think  of.  For  example, 
he  was  curious  to  know  if  Wingfield's  air  of  pro 
prietorship  in  Miss  Craigmiles  would  persist  under 
Colonel  Craigmiles' s  own  roof. 

Apparently  it  did  persist.  Before  the  first  course 
was  removed  Baliard's  curiosity  was  in  the  way  of 
being  amply  satisfied;  and  he  was  saying  "Yes" 
and  "No"  like  a  well-adjusted  automaton  to  Miss 
Van  Bryck. 

In  the  seating  he  had  Major  Blacklock  and  one 
of  the  Cantrell  girls  for  his  opposites;  and  Lucius 
Bigelow  and  the  other  sharer  of  the  common  Can 
trell  Christian  name  widened  the  gap.  But  the 
centrepiece  in  the  middle  of  the  great  mahogany 
was  low;  and  Ballard  could  see  over  it  only  too 
well. 

Wingfield  and  Elsa  were  discussing  playmaking 
and  the  playmaker's  art;  or,  rather,  Wingfield  was 
talking  shop  with  cheerful  dogmatism,  and  Miss 

85 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

Craigmiles  was  listening;  and  if  the  rapt  expres 
sion  of  her  face  meant  anything.  .  .  .  Ballard 
lost  himself  in  gloomy  abstraction,  and  the  colours 
of  the  electric  spectrum  suddenly  merged  for  him 
into  a  greenish-gray. 

"I  should  think  your  profession  would  be  per 
fectly  grand,  Mr.  Ballard.  Don't  you  find  it  so  ?" 
Thus  Miss  Dosia,  who,  being  quite  void  of  sub 
jective  enthusiasm,  felt  constrained  to  try  to  evoke 
it  in  others. 

"Very,"  said  Ballard,  hearing  nothing  save  the 
upward  inflection  which  demanded  a  reply. 

Miss  Van  Bryck  seemed  mildly  surprised;  but 
after  a  time  she  tried  again. 

"Has  any  one  told  you  that  Mr.  Wingfield  is 
making  the  studies  for  a  new  play  ?"  she  asked. 

Again  Ballard  marked  the  rising  inflection;  said 
"  Yes,"  at  a  venture;  and  was  straightway  humil 
iated,  as  he  deserved  to  be. 

"It  seems  so  odd  that  he  should  come  out  here 
for  his  material,"  Miss  Van  Bryck  went  on  evenly. 
"  I  don't  begin  to  understand  how  there  can  be  any 
dramatic  possibilities  in  a  wilderness  house-party, 
with  positively  no  social  setting  whatever." 

"Ah,  no;  of  course  not,"  stammered  Ballard, 
realising  now  that  he  was  fairly  at  sea.  And  then, 
to  make  matters  as  bad  as  they  could  be:  "You 
were  speaking  of  Mr.  Wingfield?" 

86 


Castle  'Cadia 

Miss  Van  Bryck's  large  blue  eyes  mirrored  re 
proachful  astonishment;  but  she  was  too  placid 
and  too  good-natured  to  be  genuinely  piqued. 

"I  fear  you  must  have  had  a  hard  day,  Mr.  Bal- 
lard.  All  this  is  very  wearisome  to  you,  isn't  it  ?" 
she  said,  letting  him  have  a  glimpse  of  the  real 
kindness  underlying  the  inanities. 

"My  day  has  been  rather  strenuous,"  he  con 
fessed.  "But  you  make  me  ashamed.  Won't 
you  be  merciful  and  try  me  again?"  And  this 
time  he  knew  what  he  was  saying,  and  meant  it. 

"It  is  hardly  worth  repeating,"  she  qualified— 
nevertheless,  she  did  repeat  it. 

Ballard,  listening  now,  found  the  little  note  of 
distress  in  the  protest  against  play-building  in  the 
wilderness;  and  his  heart  warmed  to  Miss  Dosia. 
In  the  sentimental  field,  disappointment  for  one 
commonly  implies  disappointment  for  two;  and 
he  became  suddenly  conscious  of  a  fellow-feeling 
for  the  heiress  of  the  Van  Bryck  millions. 

"There  is  plenty  of  dramatic  material  in  Ar 
cadia  for  Mr.  Wingfield,  if  he  knows  where  to  look 
for  it,"  he  submitted.  "For  example,  our  camp 
at  the  dam  furnishes  a  'situation'  every  now  and 
then."  And  here  he  told  the  story  of  the  cata 
pulted  stone,  adding  the  little  dash  of  mystery  to 
give  it  the  dramatic  flavour. 

Miss  Dosia's  interest  was  as  eager  as  her  limita- 

87 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

tions  would  permit.  "May  I  tell  Mr.  Wingfield  ?" 
she  asked,  with  such  innocent  craft  that  Ballard 
could  scarcely  restrain  a  smile. 

"Certainly.  And  if  Mr.  Wingfield  is  open  to 
suggestion  on  that  side,  you  may  bring  him  down, 
and  I'll  put  him  on  the  trail  of  a  lot  more  of  the 
mysteries." 

"  Thank  you  so  much.  And  may  I  call  it  my 
discovery  ?" 

Again  her  obviousness  touched  the  secret  spring 
of  laughter  in  him.  It  was  very  evident  that  Miss 
Van  Bryck  would  do  anything  in  reason  to  bring 
about  a  solution  of  continuity  in  the  sympathetic 
intimacy  growing  up  between  the  pair  on  the  op 
posite  side  of  the  table. 

"It  is  yours,  absolutely,"  he  made  haste  to  say. 
"I  should  never  have  thought  of  the  dramatic 
utility  if  you  hadn't  suggested  it." 

"H'm!— ha!"  broke  in  the  major.  "What  are 
you  two  young  people  plotting  about  over  there  ?" 

Ballard  turned  the  edge  of  the  query;  blunted 
it  permanently  by  attacking  a  piece  of  government 
engineering  in  which,  as  he  happened  to  know, 
the  major  had  figured  in  an  advisory  capacity. 
This  carrying  of  the  war  into  Africa  brought  on 
a  battle  technical  which  ran  on  unbroken  to  the 
ices  and  beyond;  to  the  moment  when  Colonel 
Craigmiles  proposed  an  adjournment  to  the  portico 

88 


Castle  'Cadia 

for  the  coffee  and  the  tobacco.  Ballard  came  off 
second-best,  but  he  had  accomplished  his  object, 
which  was  to  make  the  shrewd-eyed  old  major 
forget  if  he  had  overheard  too  much;  and  Miss 
Van  Bryck  gave  him  his  meed  of  praise. 

"You  are  a  very  brave  man,  Mr.  Ballard," 
she  said,  as  he  drew  the  portieres  aside  for  her. 
"Everybody  else  is  afraid  of  the  major." 

"  I've  met  him  before,"  laughed  the  Kentuckian; 
"in  one  or  another  of  his  various  incarnations. 
And  I  didn't  learn  my  trade  at  West  Point,  you 
remember." 


IX 
THE  BRINK  OF  HAZARD 

THE  summer  night  was  perfect,  and  the  after- 
dinner  gathering  under  the  great  portico  be 
came  rather  a  dispersal.  The  company  fell  apart 
into  couples  and  groups  when  the  coffee  was  served; 
and  while  Miss  Craigmiles  and  the  playwright 
were  still  fraying  the  worn  threads  of  the  dramatic 
unities,  Ballard  consoled  himself  with  the  older  of 
the  Cantrell  girls,  talking  commonplace  nothings 
until  his  heart  ached. 

Later  on,  when  young  Bigelow  had  relieved  him, 
and  he  had  given  up  all  hope  of  breaking  into  the 
dramatic  duet,  he  rose  to  go  and  make  his  parting 
acknowledgments  to  Miss  Cauffrey  and  the  colonel. 
It  was  at  that  moment  that  Miss  Elsa  confronted 
him. 

"You  are  not  leaving?"  she  said.  uThe  even 
ing  is  still  young — even  for  country  folk." 

"Measuring  by  the  hours  I've  been  neglected, 
the  evening  is  old,  very  old,"  he  retorted  reproach 
fully. 

90 


The  Brink  of  Hazard 

"Which  is  another  way  of  saying  that  we  have 
bored  you  until  you  are  sleepy?"  she  countered. 
"  But  you  mustn't  go  yet — I  want  to  talk  to  you." 
And  she  wheeled  a  great  wicker  lounging-chair  into 
a  quiet  corner,  and  beat  up  the  pillows  in  a  near 
by  hammock,  and  bade  him  smoke  his  pipe  if  he 
preferred  it  to  the  Castle  'Cadia  cigars. 

"  I  don't  care  to  smoke  anything  if  you  will  stay 
and  talk  to  me,"  he  said,  love  quickly  blotting  out 
the  disappointments  foregone. 

"For  this  one  time  you  may  have  both — your 
pipe  and  me.  Are  you  obliged  to  go  back  to  your 
camp  to-night  ?" 

"  Yes,  indeed.  I  ran  away,  as  it  was.  Bromley 
will  have  it  in  for  me  for  dodging  him  this  way." 

"Is  Mr.  Bromley  your  boss?" 

"  He  is  something  much  better — he  is  my  friend." 

Her  hammock  was  swung  diagonally  across  the 
quiet  corner,  and  she  arranged  her  pillows  so  that 
the  shadow  of  a  spreading  potted  palm  came  be 
tween  her  eyes  and  the  nearest  electric  globe. 

"Am  I  not  your  friend,  too  ?"  she  asked. 

Jerry  Blacklock  and  the  younger  Miss  Cantreli 
were  pacing  a  slow  sentry  march  up  and  down  the 
open  space  in  front  of  the  lounging-chairs;  and 
Ballard  waited  until  they  had  made  the  turn  and 
were  safely  out  of  ear-shot  before  he  said:  "There 
are  times  when  I  have  to  admit  it,  reluctantly." 

91 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

"How  ridiculous!"  she  scoffed.  "What  is 
finer  than  true  friendship  ?" 

"Love,"  he  said  simply. 

"Cousin  Janet  will  hear  you,"  she  warned. 
Then  she  mocked  him,  as  was  her  custom.  "  Does 
that  mean  that  you  would  like  to  have  me  tell  you 
about  Mr.  Wingfield?" 

He  played  trumps  again. 

"Yes.     When  is  it  to  be?" 

"How  crudely  elemental  you  are  to-night  ! 
Suppose  you  ask  him?" 

"He  hasn't  given  me  the  right." 

"Oh.     And  I  have?" 

"You  are  trying  to  give  it  to  me,  aren't  you  ?" 

She  was  swinging  gently  in  the  hammock,  one 
daintily  booted  foot  touching  the  floor. 

"  You  are  so  painfully  direct  at  times,"  she  com 
plained.  "It's  like  a  cold  shower-bath;  invigor 
ating,  but  shivery.  Do  you  think  Mr.  Wingfield 
really  cares  anything  for  me  ?  I  don't.  I  think 
he  regards  me  merely  as  so  much  literary  material. 
He  lives  from  moment  to  moment  in  the  hope  of 
discovering  'situations." 

"Well," — assentingly.  "I  am  sure  he  has 
chosen  a  most  promising  subject — and  surround 
ings.  The  kingdom  of  Arcadia  reeks  with  dra 
matic  possibilities,  I  should  say." 

Her  face  was  still  in  the  shadow  of  the  branching 

92 


The  Brink  of  Hazard 

palm,  but  the  changed  tone  betrayed  her  changed 
mood. 

"  I  have  often  accused  you  of  having  no  insight 
— no  intuition,"  she  said  musingly.  uYet  you 
have  a  way  of  groping  blindly  to  the  very  heart  of 
things.  How  could  you  know  that  it  has  come  to 
be  the  chief  object  of  my  life  to  keep  Mr.  Wing- 
field  from  becoming  interested  in  what  you  flip 
pantly  call  'the  dramatic  possibilities'?" 

"I  didn't  know  it,"  he  returned. 

"  Of  course  you  didn't.  Yet  it  is  true.  It  is  one 
of  the  reasons  why  I  gave  up  going  with  the  Herbert 
Lassleys  after  my  passage  was  actually  booked  on 
the  Carania.  Cousin  Janet's  party  was  made  up. 
Dosia  and  Jerry  Blacklock  came  down  to  the 
steamer  to  see  us  off.  Dosia  told  me  that  Mr. 
Wingfield  was  included.  You  have  often  said 
that  I  have  the  courage  of  a  man — I  hadn't,  then. 
I  was  horribly  afraid." 

"Of  what?"  he  queried. 

"Of  many  things.  You  would  not  understand 
if  I  should  try  to  explain  them." 

"I  do  understand,"  he  hastened  to  say.  "But 
you  have  nothing  to  fear.  Castle  'Cadia  will 
merely  gain  an  ally  when  Wingfield  hears  the 
story  of  the  little  war.  Besides,  I  was  not  including 
your  father's  controversy  with  the  Arcadia  Com 
pany  in  the  dramatic  material;  I  was  thinking 

93 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

more  particularly  of  the  curious  and  unaccount 
able  happenings  that  are  continually  occurring  on 
the  work — the  accidents." 

"  There  is  no  connection  between  the  two — in 
your  mind?"  she  asked.  She  was  looking  away 
from  him,  and  he  could  not  see  her  face.  But  the 
question  was  eager,  almost  pathetically  eager. 

"Assuredly  not,"  he  denied  promptly.  "Other 
wise " 

"Otherwise  you  wouldn't  be  here  to-night  as 
my  father's  guest,  you  would  say.  But  others  are 
not  as  charitable.  Mr.  Macpherson  was  one  of 
them.  He  charged  all  the  trouble  to  us,  though  he 
could  prove  nothing.  He  said  that  if  all  the  cir 
cumstances  were  made  public — "  She  faced 
him  quickly,  and  he  saw  that  the  beautiful  eyes 
were  full  of  trouble.  "Can't  you  see  what  would 
happen — what  is  likely  to  happen  if  Mr.  Wingfield 
sees  fit  to  make  literary  material  out  of  all  these 
mysteries  ?" 

The  Kentuckian  nodded.  "The  unthinking, 
newspaper-reading  public  would  probably  make 
one  morsel  of  the  accidents  and  your  father's 
known  antagonism  to  the  company.  But  Wing- 
field  would  be  something  less  than  a  man  and  a 
lover  if  he  could  bring  himself  to  the  point  of 
making  literary  capital  out  of  anything  that  might 
remotely  involve  you  or  your  father." 

94 


The  Brink  of  Hazard 

She  shook  her  head  doubtfully. 

"You  don't  understand  the  artistic  tempera 
ment.  It's  a  passion.  I  once  heard  Mr.  Wing- 
field  say  that  a  true  artist  would  make  copy  out  of 
his  grandmother." 

Ballard  scowled.  It  was  quite  credible  that  the 
Lester  Wingfields  were  lost  to  all  sense  of  the  com 
mon  decencies,  but  that  Elsa  Craigmiles  should 
be  in  love  with  the  sheik  of  the  caddish  tribe  was 
quite  beyond  belief. 

"I'll  choke  him  off  for  you,"  he  said;  and  his 
tone  took  its  colour  from  the  contemptuous  under- 
thought.  "But  I'm  afraid  I've  already  made  a 
mess  of  it.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  suggested  to  Miss 
Van  Bryck  at  dinner  that  our  camp  might  be  a 
good  hunting-ground  for  Wingfield." 

"  You  said  that  to  Dosia?"  There  was  some 
thing  like  suppressed  horror  in  the  low-spoken 
query. 

"Not  knowing  any  better,  I  did.  She  was 
speaking  of  Wingfield,  and  of  the  literary  barren 
ness  of  house-parties  in  general.  I  mentioned  the 
camp  as  an  alternative — told  her  to  bring  him 
down,  and  I'd —  Good  heavens!  what  have  I 
done?" 

Even  in  the  softened  light  of  the  electric  globes 
he  saw  that  her  face  had  become  a  pallid  mask  of 
terror;  that  she  was  swaying  in  the  hammock.  He 

95 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

was  beside  her  instantly;  and  when  she  hid  her 
face  in  her  hands,  his  arm  went  about  her  for  her 
comforting — this,  though  Wingfield  was  chatting 
amiably  with  Mrs.  Van  Bryck  no  more  than  three 
chairs  away. 

"Don't!"  he  begged.  "Til  get  out  of  it  some 
way — lie  out  of  it,  fight  out  of  it,  if  needful.  I 
didn't  know  it  meant  anything  to  you.  If  I  had— 
Elsa,  dear,  I  love  you;  you've  known  it  from  the 
first.  You  can  make  believe  with  other  men  as 
you  please,  but  in  the  end  I  shall  claim  you.  Now 
tell  me  what  it  is  that  you  want  me  to  do." 

Impulsively  she  caught  at  the  caressing  hand  on 
her  shoulder,  kissed  it,  and  pushed  him  away  with 
resolute  strength. 

"You  must  never  forget  yourself  again,  dear 
friend — or  make  me  forget,"  she  said  steadily. 
"And  you  must  help  me  as  you  can.  There  is 
trouble — deeper  trouble  than  you  know  or  suspect. 
I  tried  to  keep  you  out  of  it — away  from  it;  and 
now  you  are  here  in  Arcadia,  to  make  it  worse, 
infinitely  worse.  You  have  seen  me  laugh  and 
talk  with  the  others,  playing  the  part  of  the  woman 
you  know.  Yet  there  is  never  a  waking  moment 
when  the  burden  of  anxiety  is  lifted." 

He  mistook  her  meaning. 

"You  needn't  be  anxious  about  Wingfield's 
material  hunt,"  he  interposed.  "If  Miss  Dosia 


The  Brink  of  Hazard 

takes  him  to  the  camp,  I'll  see  to  it  that  he  doesn't 
hear  any  of  the  ghost  stories." 

"That  is  only  one  of  the  anxieties,"  she  went  on 
hurriedly.  "The  greatest  of  them  is — for  you." 

"Forme?     Because- 

"  Because  your  way  to  Arcadia  lay  over  three 
graves.  That  means  nothing  to  you — does  it  also 
mean  nothing  that  your  life  was  imperilled  within 
an  hour  of  your  arrival  at  your  camp  ?" 

He  drew  the  big  chair  nearer  to  the  hammock 
and  sat  down  again. 

"Now  you  are  letting  Bromley's  imagination 
run  away  with  yours.  That  rock  came  from  our 
quarry.  There  was  a  night  gang  getting  out  stone 
for  the  dam." 

She  laid  her  hand  softly  on  his  knee. 

"  Do  you  want  to  know  how  much  I  trust  you  ? 
That  stone  was  thrown  by  a  man  who  was  stand 
ing  upon  the  high  bluff  back  of  your  headquarters. 
He  thought  you  were  alone  in  the  office,  and  he 
meant  to  kill  you.  Don't  ask  me  who  it  was,  or 
how  I  know — I  do  know." 

Ballard  started  involuntarily.  It  was  not  in 
human  nature  to  take  such  an  announcement 
calmly. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  I  was  coolly  am 
bushed  before  I  could— 

She  silenced  him  with  a  quick  little  gesture. 
97 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

Blacklock  and  Miss  Cantrell  were  still  pacing  their 
sentry  beat,  and  the  major's  "H'm — ha!"  rose  in 
irascible  contradiction  above  the  hum  of  voices. 

"I  have  said  all  that  I  dare  to  say;  more  than  I 
should  have  said  if  you  were  not  so  rashly  deter 
mined  to  make  light  of  things  you  do  not  under 
stand,"  she  rejoined  evenly. 

"They  are  things  which  I  should  understand — 
which  I  must  understand  if  I  am  to  deal  intelli 
gently  with  them,"  he  insisted.  "I  have  been 
calling  them  one  part  accident  and  three  parts 
superstition  or  imagination.  But  if  there  is  de- 
sign- 

Again  she  stopped  him  with  the  imperative  little 
gesture. 

"I  did  not  say  there  was  design,"  she  denied. 

It  was  an  impasse,  and  the  silence  which  fol 
lowed  emphasised  it.  When  he  rose  to  take  his 
leave,  love  prompted  an  offer  of  service,  and  he 
made  it. 

"  I  cannot  help  believing  that  you  are  mistaken," 
he  qualified.  "But  I  respect  your  anxiety  so 
much  that  I  would  willingly  share  it  if  I  could. 
What  do  you  want  me  to  do  ?" 

She  turned  to  look  away  down  the  maple-shad 
owed  avenue  and  her  answer  had  tears  in  it. 

"I  want  you  to  be  watchful — always  watchful. 
I  wish  you  to  believe  that  your  life  is  in  peril,  and 


The  Brink  of  Hazard 

to  act  accordingly.  And,  lastly,  I  beg  you  to  help 
me  to  keep  Mr.  Wingfield  away  from  Elbow 
Canyon." 

"I  shall  be  heedful,"  he  promised.  "And  if 
Mr.  Wingfield  comes  material-hunting,  I  shall  be 
as  inhospitable  as  possible.  May  I  come  again  to 
Castle  'Cadia?" 

The  invitation  was  given  instantly,  almost 
eagerly. 

"Yes;  come  as  often  as  you  can  spare  the  time. 
Must  you  go  now  ?  Shall  I  have  Otto  bring  the 
car  and  drive  you  around  to  your  camp  ?" 

Ballard  promptly  refused  to  put  the  chauffeur  to 
the  trouble.  It  was  only  a  little  more  than  a  mile 
in  the  direct  line  from  the  house  on  the  knoll  to 
the  point  where  the  river  broke  through  the  foot 
hill  hogback,  and  the  night  was  fine  and  starlit. 
After  the  day  of  hard  riding  he  should  enjoy  the 
walk. 

Elsa  did  not  go  with  him  when  he  went  to  say 
good-night  to  Miss  Cauffrey  and  to  his  host.  He 
left  her  sitting  in  the  hammock,  and  found  her  still 
there  a  few  minutes  later  when  he  came  back  to 
say  that  he  must  make  his  acknowledgments  to 
her  father  through  her.  "I  can't  find  him,  and  no 
one  seems  to  know  where  he  is,"  he  explained. 

She  rose  quickly  and  went  to  the  end  of  the 
portico  to  look  down  a  second  tree-shadowed 

99 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

avenue  skirting  the  mountainward  slope  of  the 
knoll. 

"He  must  have  gone  to  the  laboratory;  the 
lights  are  on,"  she  said;  and  then  with  a  smile  that 
thrilled  him  ecstatically:  "You  see  what  your 
footing  is  to  be  at  Castle  'Cadia.  Father  will  not 
make  company  of  you;  he  expects  you  to  come 
and  go  as  one  of  us." 

With  this  heart-warming  word  for  his  leave- 
taking  Ballard  sought  out  the  path  to  which  she 
directed  him  and  swung  off  down  the  hill  to  find 
the  trail,  half  bridle-path  and  half  waggon  road, 
which  led  by  way  of  the  river's  windings  to  the 
outlet  canyon  and  the  camp  on  the  outer  mesa. 

When  he  was  but  a  little  distance  from  the  house 
he  heard  the  pad  pad  of  soft  footfalls  behind  him, 
and  presently  a  great  dog  of  the  St.  Bernard  breed 
overtook  him  and  walked  sedately  at  his  side. 
Ballard  loved  a  good  dog  only  less  than  he  loved  a 
good  horse,  and  he  stopped  to  pat  the  St.  Bernard, 
talking  to  it  as  he  might  have  talked  to  a  human 
being. 

Afterward,  when  he  went  on,  the  dog  kept  even 
pace  with  him,  and  would  not  go  back,  though 
Ballard  tried  to  send  him,  coaxing  first  and  then 
commanding.  To  the  blandishments  the  big  re 
triever  made  his  return  in  kind,  wagging  his  tail 
and  thrusting  his  huge  head  between  Ballard's 

100 


The  Brink  of  Hazard 

knees  in  token  of  affection  and  -loyal  fealty.-..  "To 
the  commands  he  was  entirely,  deaf,  -and*, when 
Ballard  desisted,  the  dog  took  his  place  at'  out 
side  and  one  step  in  advance,  as  if  half  impatient 
at  his  temporary  master's  waste  of  time. 

At  the  foot-bridge  crossing  the  river  the  dog  ran 
ahead  and  came  back  again,  much  as  if  he  were  a 
scout  pioneering  the  way;  and  at  Ballard's  "Good 
dog!  Fine  old  fellow!"  he  padded  along  with  still 
graver  dignity,  once  more  catching  the  step  in  ad 
vance  and  looking  neither  to  right  nor  left. 

At  another  time  Ballard  might  have  wondered 
why  the  great  St.  Bernard,  most  sagacious  of  his 
tribe,  should  thus  attach  himself  to  a  stranger 
and  refuse  to  be  shaken  off.  But  at  the  moment 
the  young  man  had  a  heartful  of  other  and  more 
insistent  queryings.  Gained  ground  with  the 
loved  one  is  always  the  lover's  most  heady  cup  of 
intoxication;  but  the  lees  at  the  bottom  of  the 
present  cup  were  sharply  tonic,  if  not  bitter. 

What  was  the  mystery  so  evidently  enshrouding 
the  tragedies  at  Elbow  Canyon  ?  That  they  were 
tragedies  rather  than  accidents  there  seemed  no 
longer  any  reasonable  doubt.  But  with  the  doubt 
removed  the  mystery  cloud  grew  instantly  thicker 
and  more  impenetrable.  If  the  tragedies  were 
growing  out  of  the  fight  for  the  possession  of  Ar 
cadia  Park,  what  manner  of  man  could  Colonel 

101 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

Craigmiles  b*  to  play  the  kindly,  courteous  host  at 
one  moment  ^nd  the  backer  and  instigator  of  mur- 
deref s  at  'the  next  ?  And  if  the  charge  against  the 
colonel  be  allowed  to  stand,  it  immediately  dragged 
in  a  sequent  which  was  clearly  inadmissible:  the 
unavoidable  inference  being  that  Elsa  Craigmiles 
was  in  no  uncertain  sense  her  father's  accessory. 

Ballard  was  a  man  and  a  lover;  and  his  first 
definition  of  love  was  unquestioning  loyalty.  He 
was  prepared  to  doubt  the  evidence  of  his  senses, 
if  need  be,  but  not  the  perfections  of  the  ideal  he 
had  set  up  in  the  inner  chamber  of  his  heart, 
naming  it  Elsa  Craigmiles. 

These  communings  and  queryings,  leading  al 
ways  into  the  same  metaphysical  labyrinth,  brought 
the  young  engineer  far  on  the  down-river  trail; 
were  still  with  him  when  the  trail  narrowed  to  a 
steep  one-man  path  and  began  to  climb  the  hog 
back,  with  one  side  buttressed  by  a  low  clifF  and 
the  other  falling  sheer  into  the  Boiling  Water  on 
the  left.  On  this  narrow  ledge  the  dog  went 
soberly  ahead;  and  at  one  of  the  turns  in  the  path 
Ballard  came  upon  him  standing  solidly  across  the 
way  and  effectually  blocking  it. 

"What  is  it,  old  boy?"  was  the  man's  query; 
and  the  dog's  answer  was  a  wag  of  the  tail  and  a 
low  whine.  "Go  on,  old  fellow,"  said  Ballard; 
but  the  big  St.  Bernard  merely  braced  himself  and 

102 


The  Brink  of  Hazard 

whined  again.  It  was  quite  dark  on  the  high  ledge, 
a  fringe  of  scrub  pines  on  the  upper  side  of  the 
cutting  blotting  out  a  fair  half  of  the  starlight. 
Ballard  struck  a  match  and  looked  beyond  the 
dog;  looked  and  drew  back  with  a  startled  ex 
clamation.  Where  the  continuation  of  the  path 
should  have  been  there  was  a  gaping  chasm  pitch 
ing  steeply  down  into  the  Boiling  Water. 

More  lighted  matches  served  to  show  the  extent 

o 

of  the  hazard  and  the  trap-like  peril  of  it.  A  con 
siderable  section  of  the  path  had  slid  away  in  a 
land-  or  rock-slide,  and  Ballard  saw  how  he  might 
easily  have  walked  into  the  gulf  if  the  dog  had  not 
stopped  on  the  brink  of  it. 

"I  owe  you  one,  good  old  boy,"  he  said,  stoop 
ing  to  pat  the  words  out  on  the  St.  Bernard's  head. 
"I'll  pay  it  when  I  can;  to  you,  to  your  mistress, 
or  possibly  even  to  your  master.  Come  on,  old 
fellow,  and  we'll  find  another  way  with  less  risk  in 
it,"  and  he  turned  back  to  climb  over  the  mesa 
hill  under  the  stone  quarries,  approaching  the  head 
quarters  camp  from  the  rear. 

When  the  hill  was  surmounted  and  the  electric 
mast  lights  of  the  camp  lay  below,  the  great  dog 
stopped,  sniffing  the  air  suspiciously. 

"Don't  like  the  looks  of  it,  do  you  ?"  said  Bal 
lard.  "Well,  I  guess  you'd  better  go  back  home. 
It  isn't  a  very  comfortable  place  down  there  for 

103 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

little  dogs — or  big  ones.  Good-night,  old  fellow." 
And,  quite  as  if  he  understood,  the  St.  Bernard 
faced  about  and  trotted  away  toward  Castle  'Cadia. 

There  was  a  light  in  the  adobe  shack  when 
Ballard  descended  the  hill,  and  he  found  Bromley 
sitting  up  for  him.  The  first  assistant  engineer 
was  killing  time  by  working  on  the  current  estimate 
for  the  quarry  subcontractor,  and  he  looked  up 
quizzically  when  his  chief  came  in. 

"Been  bearding  the  lion  in  his  den,  have  you  ?" 
he  said,  cheerfully.  " That's  right;  there's  nothing 
like  being  neighbourly,  even  with  our  friend  the 
enemy.  Didn't  you  find  him  all  the  things  I  said 
he  was — and  then  some?" 

"Yes,"  returned  Ballard,  gravely.  Then,  ab 
ruptly:  "Loudon,  who  uses  the  path  that  goes  up 
on  our  side  of  the  canyon  and  over  into  the  Castle 
'Cadia  valley?" 

"Who? — why,  anybody  having  occasion  to. 
It's  the  easiest  way  to  reach  the  wing  dam  that 
Sanderson  built  at  the  canyon  inlet  to  turn  the 
current  against  the  right  bank.  Fitzpatrick  sends 
a  man  over  now  and  then  to  clear  the  driftwood 
from  the  dam." 

"Anybody  been  over  to-day?" 

"No." 

"How  about  the  cow-puncher — Grigsby — who 
brought  my  horse  over  and  got  my  bag?" 

104 


The  Brink  of  Hazard 

"  He  was  riding,  and  he  came  and  went  by  way 
of  our  bridge  below  the  dam.  You  couldn't  ride 
a  horse  over  that  hill  path." 

"You  certainly  could  not,"  said  Ballard  grimly. 
"There  is  a  chunk  about  the  size  of  this  shack 
gone  out  of  it — dropped  into  the  river,  I  suppose." 

Bromley  was  frowning  reflectively. 

"More  accidents?"  he  suggested. 

"One  more — apparently." 

Bromley  jumped  up,  sudden  realization  grap 
pling  him. 

"Why,  Breckenridge! — you've  just  come  over 
that  path — alone,  and  in  the  dark!" 

"Part  way  over  it,  and  in  the  dark,  yes;  but 
not  alone,  luckily.  The  Craigmiles's  dog — the  big 
St.  Bernard — was  with  me,  and  he  stopped  on  the 
edge  of  the  break.  Otherwise  I  might  have 
walked  into  it — most  probably  should  have  walked 


into  it." 


Bromley  began  to  tramp  the  floor  with  his  hands 
in  his  pockets. 

"I  can't  remember,"  he  said;  and  again,  "I 
can't  remember.  I  was  over  there  yesterday,  or 
the  day  before.  It  was  all  right  then.  It  was  a 
good  trail.  Why,  Breckenridge" — with  sudden 
emphasis — "it  would  have  taken  a  charge  of 
dynamite  to  blow  it  down!" 

Ballard  dropped  lazily  into  a  chair  and  locked 
105 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

his  hands  at  the  back  of  his  head.  "And  you  say 
that  the  hoodoo  hasn't  got  around  to  using  high 
explosives  yet,  eh  ?  By  the  way,  have  there  been 
any  more  visitations  since  I  went  out  on  the  line 
last  Tuesday  ?" 

Bromley  was  shaking  his  head  in  the  negative 
when  the  door  opened  with  a  jerk  and  Bessinger, 
the  telegraph  operator  whose  wire  was  in  the  rail 
road  yard  office,  tumbled  in,  white  faced. 

"Hoskins  and  the  Two!"  he  gasped.  "They're 
piled  up  under  a  material  train  three  miles  down 
the  track!  Fitzpatrick  is  turning  out  a  wrecking 
crew  from  the  bunk  shanties,  and  he  sent  me  up  to 
call  you!" 

Bromley's  quick  glance  aside  for  Ballard  was 
acutely  significant. 

"I  guess  I'd  better  change  that  'No'  of  mine 
to  a  qualified  'Yes,'"  he  corrected.  "The  visita 
tion  seems  to  have  come."  Then  to  Bessinger: 
"Get  your  breath,  Billy,  and  then  chase  back  to 
Fitzpatrick.  Tell  him  we'll  be  with  him  as  soon 
as  Mr.  Ballard  can  change  his  clothes." 


1 06 


X 

HOSKINS'S  GHOST 

THE  wreck  in  the  rocky  hills  west  of  the  Elbow 
Canyon  railroad  yard  proved  to  be  less 
calamitous  than  Bessinger's  report,  handed  on 
from  the  excited  alarm  brought  in  by  a  demoralized 
train  flagman,  had  pictured  it.  When  Ballard  and 
Bromley,  hastening  to  the  rescue  on  Fitzpatrick's 
relief  train,  reached  the  scene  of  the  accident,  they 
found  Hoskins's  engine  and  fifteen  cars  in  the 
ditch,  and  the  second  flagman  with  a  broken  arm; 
but  Hoskins  himself  was  unhurt,  as  were  the  re 
maining  members  of  the  train  crew. 

Turning  the  work  of  track  clearing  over  to 
Bromley  and  the  relief  crew,  Ballard  began  at 
once  to  pry  irritably  into  causes;  irritably  since 
wrecks  meant  delays,  and  President  Pelham's  let 
ters  were  already  cracking  the  whip  for  greater 
expedition. 

It  was  a  singular  derailment,  and  at  first  none 
of  the  trainmen  seemed  to  be  able  to  account  for 
it.  The  point  of  disaster  was  on  a  sharp  curve 

107 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

where  the  narrow-gauge  track  bent  like  a  strained 
bow  around  one  of  the  rocky  hills.  As  the  debris 
lay,  the  train  seemed  to  have  broken  in  two  on  the 
knuckle  of  the  curve,  and  here  the  singularity  was 
emphasised.  The  overturned  cars  were  not  merely 
derailed;  they  were  locked  and  crushed  together, 
and  heaped  up  and  strewn  abroad,  in  a  fashion  to 
indicate  a  collision  rather  than  a  simple  jumping 
of  the  track. 

Ballard  used  Galliford,  the  train  conductor,  for 
the  first  heel  of  his  pry. 

"I  guess  you  and  Hoskins  both  need  about 
thirty  days,"  was  the  way  he  opened  upon  Galli 
ford.  "How  long  had  your  train  been  broken  in 
two  before  the  two  sections  came  in  collision  ?" 

"If  we  was  broke  in  two,  nobody  knew  it.  I 
was  in  the  caboose  'lookout'  myself,  and  I  saw 
the  Two's  gauge-light  track  around  the  curve. 
Next  I  knew,  I  was  smashin'  the  glass  in  the  'look 
out'  with  my  head,  and  the  train  was  chasin'  out 
on  the  prairie.  I'll  take  the  thirty  days,  all  right, 
and  I  won't  sue  the  company  for  the  cuts  on  my 
head.  But  I'll  be  danged  if  I'll  take  the  blame, 
Mr.  Ballard."  The  conductor  spoke  as  a  man. 

"  Somebody's  got  to  take  it,"  snapped  the  chief. 
"If  you  didn't  break  in  two,  what  did  happen  ?" 

"Now  you've  got  me  guessing,  and  I  hain't  got 
any  more  guesses  left.  At  first  I  thought  Hoskins 

1 08 


Hoskins's  Ghost 

had  hit  something  'round  on  the  far  side  o'  the 
curve.  That's  what  it  felt  like.  Then,  for  a  sec 
ond  or  two,  I  could  have  sworn  he  had  the  Two 
in  the  reverse,  backing  his  end  of  the  train  up 
against  my  end  and  out  into  the  sage-brush." 

"What  does  Hoskins  say?  Where  is  he?"  de 
manded  Ballard;  and  together  they  picked  their 
way  around  to  the  other  end  of  the  wreck,  looking 
for  the  engineman. 

Hoskins,  however,  was  not  to  be  found.  Fitz- 
patrick  had  seen  him  groping  about  in  the  cab  of 
his  overturned  engine;  and  Bromley,  when  the  in 
quiry  reached  him,  explained  that  he  had  sent 
Hoskins  up  to  camp  on  a  hand-car  which  was 
going  back  for  tools. 

"He  was  pretty  badly  shaken  up,  and  I  told  him 
he'd  better  hunt  the  bunk  shanty  and  rest  his 
nerves  awhile.  We  didn't  need  him,"  said  the 
assistant,  accounting  for  the  engineman's  disap 
pearance. 

Ballard  let  the  investigation  rest  for  the  mo 
ment,  but  later,  when  Bromley  was  working  the 
contractor's  gang  on  the  track  obstructions  farther 
along,  he  lighted  a  flare  torch  at  the  fire  some  of 
the  men  had  made  out  of  the  wreck  kindling  wood, 
and  began  a  critical  examination  of  the  derailed 
and  debris-covered  locomotive. 

It  was  a  Baldwin  ten-wheel  type,  with  the  boiler 
109 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

extending  rather  more  than  half-way  through  the 
cab,  and  since  it  had  rolled  over  on  the  right-hand 
side,  the  controlling  levers  were  under  the  crushed 
wreckage  of  the  cab.  None  the  less,  Ballard  saw 
what  he  was  looking  for;  afterward  making  assur 
ance  doubly  sure  by  prying  at  the  engine's  brake- 
shoes  and  thrusting  the  pinch-bar  of  inquiry  into 
various  mechanisms  under  the  trucks  and  driving- 
wheels. 

It  was  an  hour  past  midnight  when  Bromley  re 
ported  the  track  clear,  and  asked  if  the  volunteer 
wrecking  crew  should  go  on  and  try  to  pick  up  the 
cripples. 

"Not  to-night,"  was  Ballard's  decision.  "We'll 
get  Williams  and  his  track-layers  in  from  the  front 
to-morrow  and  let  them  tackle  it.  Williams  used 
to  be  Upham's  wrecking  boss  over  on  the  D.  & 
U.  P.  main  line,  and  he'll  make  short  work  of  this 
little  pile-up,  engine  and  all." 

Accordingly,  the  whistle  of  the  relief  train's  en 
gine  was  blown  to  recall  Fitzpatrick's  men,  and  a 
little  later  the  string  of  flats,  men-laden,  trailed 
away  among  the  up-river  hills,  leaving  the  scene 
of  the  disaster  with  only  the  dull  red  glow  of  the 
workmen's  night  fire  to  illuminate  it. 

When  the  rumble  of  the  receding  relief  train  was 
no  longer  audible,  the  figure  of  a  man,  dimly  out 
lined  in  the  dusky  glow  of  the  fire,  materialised 

no 


Hoskins's  Ghost 

out  of  the  shadows  of  the  nearest  arroyo.  First 
making  sure  that  no  watchman  had  been  left  to 
guard  the  point  of  hazard,  the  man  groped  pur 
posefully  under  the  fallen  locomotive  and  drew 
forth  a  stout  steel  bar  which  had  evidently  been 
hidden  for  this  later  finding.  With  this  bar  for  a 
lever,  the  lone  wrecker  fell  fiercely  at  work  under 
the  broken  cab,  prying  and  heaving  until  the  sweat 
started  in  great  drops  under  the  visor  of  his  work 
man's  cap  and  ran  down  to  make  rivulets  of  gray 
in  the  grime  on  his  face. 

Whatever  he  was  trying  to  do  seemed  difficult  of 
accomplishment,  if  not  impossible.  Again  and 
again  he  strove  at  his  task,  pausing  now  and  then 
to  take  breath  or  to  rub  his  moist  hands  in  the  dry 
sand  for  the  better  gripping  of  the  smooth  steel. 
Finally — it  was  when  the  embers  of  the  fire  on  the 
hill  slope  were  flickering  to  their  extinction — the 
bar  slipped  and  let  him  down  heavily.  The  fall 
must  have  partly  stunned  him,  since  it  was  some 
little  time  before  he  staggered  to  his  feet,  flung 
the  bar  into  the  wreck  with  a  morose  oath,  and 
limped  away  up  the  track  toward  the  headquar 
ters  camp,  turning  once  and  again  to  shake  his 
fist  at  the  capsized  locomotive  in  the  ditch  at  the 
curve. 

It  was  in  the  afternoon  of  the  day  following  the 
wreck  that  Ballard  made  the  laboratory  test  for 

in 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

blame;  the  office  room  in  the  adobe  shack  serving 
as  the  "sweat-box." 

First  came  the  flagmen,  one  at  a  time,  their 
stories  agreeing  well  enough,  and  both  corroborat 
ing  Galliford's  account.  Next  came  Hoskins's 
fireman,  a  green  boy  from  the  Alta  Vista  mines, 
who  had  been  making  his  first  trip  over  the  road. 
He  knew  nothing  save  that  he  had  looked  up  be 
tween  shovelfuls  to  see  Hoskins  fighting  with  his 
levers,  and  had  judged  the  time  to  be  ripe  for  the 
life-saving  jump. 

Last  of  all  came  Hoskins,  hanging  his  head  and 
looking  as  if  he  had  been  caught  stealing  sheep. 

"Tell  it  straight,"  was  Ballard's  curt  caution; 
and  the  engineman  stumbled  through  a  recital  in 
which  haziness  and  inconsistency  struggled  for 
first  place.  He  had  seen  something  on  the  track 
or  he  thought  he  had,  and  had  tried  to  stop.  Be 
fore  he  could  bring  the  train  under  control  he  had 
heard  the  crashing  of  the  wreck  in  the  rear.  He 
admitted  that  he  had  jumped  while  the  engine  was 
still  in  motion. 

"Which  way  was  she  running  when  you  jumped, 
John? — forward  or  backward?"  asked  Ballard, 
quietly. 

Bromley,  who  was  making  pencil  notes  of  the 
evidence,  looked  up  quickly  and  saw  the  big 
engineman's  jaw  drop. 

112 


Hoskins's  Ghost 

"How  could  she  be  runnin'  any  way  but  for- 
rards?"  he  returned,  sullenly. 

Ballard  was  smoking,  and  he  shifted  his  cigar  to 
say:  "I  didn't  know."  Then,  with  sudden  heat: 
"But  I  mean  to  know,  Hoskins;  I  mean  to  go 
quite  to  the  bottom  of  this,  here  and  now!  You've 
been  garbling  the  facts;  purposely,  or  because  you 
are  still  too  badly  rattled  to  know  what  you  are 
talking  about.  I  can  tell  you  what  you  did:  for 
some  reason  you  made  an  emergency  stop;  you  did 
make  it,  either  with  the  brakes  or  without  them. 
Then  you  put  your  engine  in  the  reverse  motion  and 
backed;  you  were  backing  when  you  jumped,  and 
the  engine  was  still  backing  when  it  left  the  rails." 

Hoskins  put  his  shoulders  against  the  wall  and 
passed  from  sullenness  to  deep  dejection.  "I've 
got  a  wife  and  two  kids  back  in  Alta  Vista,  and 
I'm  all  in,"  he  said.  "What  is  there  about  it  that 
you  don't  know,  Mr.  Ballard  ?" 

"There  are  two  or  three  other  things  that  I  do 
know,  and  one  that  I  don't.  You  didn't  come  up 
to  the  camp  on  the  hand-car  last  night;  and  after 
we  left  the  wreck,  somebody  dug  around  in  the 
Two's  cab  trying  to  fix  things  so  that  they  would 
look  a  little  better  for  John  Hoskins.  So  much  I 
found  out  this  morning.  But  I  don't  care  par 
ticularly  about  that:  what  I  want  to  know  is  the 
first  cause.  What  made  you  lose  your  head  ?" 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

"  I  told  you;   there  was  something  on  the  track." 

"What  was  it?" 

"It  was — well,  it  was  what  once  was  a  man." 

Ballard  bit  hard  on  his  cigar,  and  all  the  phrases 
presenting  themselves  were  profane.  But  a  glance 
from  Bromley  enabled  him  to  say,  with  decent 
self-control:  "Go  on;  tell  us  about  it." 

" There  ain't  much  to  tell,  and  I  reckon  you 
won't  believe  a  thing  'at  I  say,"  Hoskins  began 
monotonously.  "Did  you  or  Mr.  Bromley  notice 
what  bend  o'  the  river  that  curve  is  at  ?" 

Ballard  said  "No,"  and  Bromley  shook  his  head. 
The  engineman  went  on. 

"It's  where  he  fell  in  and  got  drownded — Mr. 
Braithwaite,  I  mean.  I  reckon  it  sounds  mighty 
foolish  to  you-all,  sittin'  here  in  the  good  old  day 
light,  with  nothin'  happening:  but  I  saw  him. 
When  the  Two's  headlight  jerked  around  the 
curve  and  picked  him  up,  he  was  standing  between 
the  rails,  sideways,  and  lookin'  off  toward  the 
river.  He  had  the  same  little  old  two-peaked  cap 
on  that  he  always  wore,  and  he  had  his  fishin'-rod 
over  his  shoulder.  I  didn't  have  three  car  lengths 
to  the  good  when  I  saw  him;  and — and — well,  I 
reckon  I  went  plumb  crazy."  Hoskins  was  a  large 
man  and  muscular  rather  than  fat;  but  he  was 
sweating  again,  and  could  not  hold  his  hands  still. 

Ballard  got  up  and  walked  to  the  window  which 
114 


Hoskins's  Ghost 

looked  out  upon  the  stone  yard.  When  he  turned 
again  it  was  to  ask  Hoskins,  quite  mildly,  if  he 
believed  in  ghosts. 

"I  never  allowed  to,  before  this,  Mr.  Ballard." 

"Yet  you  have  often  thought  of  Braithwaite's 
drowning,  when  you  have  been  rounding  that  par 
ticular  curve  ?  I  remember  you  pointed  out  the 
place  to  me/' 

Hoskins  nodded.  "I  reckon  I  never  have  run 
by  there  since  without  thinking  of  it." 

Ballard  sat  down  again  and  tilted  his  chair  to 
the  reflective  angle. 

"One  more  question,  John,  and  then  you  may 
go.  You  had  a  two-hour  lay-over  in  Alta  Vista 
yesterday  while  the  D.  &  U.  P.  people  were  trans 
ferring  your  freight.  How  many  drinks  did  you 
take  in  those  two  hours  ?" 

"  Before  God,  Mr.  Ballard,  I  never  touched  a 
drop!  I  don't  say  I'm  too  good  to  do  it:  I  ain't. 
But  any  man  that'd  go  crookin'  his  elbow  when 
he  had  that  mountain  run  ahead  of  him  would  be 
all  fool!" 

"That's  so,"  said  Ballard.  And  then:  "That 
will  do.  Go  and  turn  in  again  and  sleep  the  clock 
around.  I'll  tell  you  what  is  going  to  happen 
to  you  when  you're  better  fit  to  hear  it." 

"Well?"  queried  Bromley,  when  Hoskins  was 
gone. 

"5 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

"Say  your  say,  and  then  I'll  say  mine,"  was 
Ballard's  rejoinder. 

"I  should  call  it  a  pretty  harsh  joke  on  Hoskins, 
played  by  somebody  with  more  spite  than  common 
sense.  There  has  been  some  little  ill  blood  be 
tween  Fitzpatrick's  men  and  the  railroad  gangs; 
more  particularly  between  the  stone-cutters  here 
at  the  dam  and  the  train  crews.  It  grew  out  of 
Fitzpatrick's  order  putting  his  men  on  the  water- 
wagon.  When  the  camp  canteen  was  closed,  the 
stone  'buckies'  tried  to  open  up  a  jug-line  from 
Alta  Vista.  The  trainmen  wouldn't  stand  for  it 
against  Macpherson's  promise  to  fire  the  first 
*  boot-legger'  he  caught." 

"And  you  think  one  of  the  stone-cutters  went 
down  from  the  camp  to  give  Hoskins  a  jolt?" 

"That  is  my  guess." 

Ballard  laughed. 

"Mine  isn't  quite  as  practical,  I'll  admit;  but 
I  believe  it  is  the  right  one.  I've  been  probing 
Hoskins's  record  quietly,  and  his  long  suit  is  super 
stition.  Half  the  ' hoodoo'  talk  of  the  camp  can 
be  traced  back  to  him  if  you'll  take  the  trouble. 
He  confessed  just  now  that  he  never  passed  that 
point  in  the  road  without  thinking  of  Braithwaite 
and  his  taking-ofF.  From  that  to  seeing  things 
isn't  a  very  long  step." 

Bromley  made  the  sign  of  acquiescence. 
116 


Hoskins's  Ghost 

"I'd  rather  accept  your  hypothesis  than  mine, 
Breckenridge.  I'd  hate  to  believe  that  we  have 
the  other  kind  of  a  fool  on  the  job;  a  man  who 
would  deliberately  make  scare  medicine  to  add  to 
that  which  is  already  made.  What  will  you  do 
with  Hoskins  ?" 

"Let  him  work  in  the  repair  shop  for  a  while, 
till  he  gets  the  fever  out  of  his  blood.  I  don't 
want  to  discharge  him." 

"Good.  Now  that  is  settled, will  you  take  a  little 
walk  with  me  ?  I  want  to  show  you  something." 

Ballard  found  his  pipe  and  filled  it,  and  they 
went  out  together.  It  was  a  perfect  summer 
afternoon,  still  and  cloudless,  and  with  the  peculiar 
high-mountain  resonance  in  the  air  that  made  the 
clink  of  the  stone  hammers  ring  like  a  musical 
chorus  beaten  out  upon  steel  anvils.  Peaceful, 
orderly  industry  struck  the  key-note,  and  for  the 
moment  there  were  no  discords.  Out  on  the  great 
ramparts  of  the  dam  the  masons  were  swinging 
block  after  block  of  the  face  wall  into  place,  and 
the  burr-r  and  cog-chatter  of  the  huge  derrick  hoist 
ing  gear  were  incessant.  Back  of  the  masonry 
the  concrete  mixers  poured  their  viscous  charges 
into  the  forms,  and  the  puddlers  walked  back  and 
forth  on  their  stagings,  tamping  the  plastic  ma 
terial  into  the  network  of  metal  bars  binding  the 
mass  with  the  added  strength  of  steel. 

117 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

Bromley  led  the  way  through  the  stone-yard 
activities  and  around  the  quarry  hill  to  the  path 
notched  in  the  steep  slope  of  the  canyon  side. 
The  second  turn  brought  them  to  the  gap  made 
by  the  land-slide.  It  was  a  curious  breach,  abrupt 
and  clean-cut;  its  shape  and  depth  suggesting  the 
effect  of  a  mighty  hammer  blow  scoring  its  groove 
from  the  path  level  to  the  river's  edge.  The  ma 
terial  was  a  compact  yellow  shale,  showing  no 
signs  of  disintegration  elsewhere. 

"What's  your  notion,  Loudon?"  said  Ballard, 
when  they  were  standing  on  the  edge  of  the  newly 
made  gash. 

Bromley  wagged  his  head  doubtfully. 

"I'm  not  so  sure  of  it  now  as  I  thought  I  was 
when  I  came  up  here  this  morning.  Do  you  see 
that  black  streak  out  there  on  the  shale,  just  about 
at  the  path  level  ?  A  few  hours  ago  I  could  have 
sworn  it  was  a  powder  burn;  the  streak  left  by  a 
burning  fuse.  It  doesn't  look  so  much  like  it  now, 
I'll  confess." 

:< You've  'got  'em'  about  as  bad  as  Hoskins 
has,"  laughed  Ballard.  "A  dynamite  charge  that 
would  account  for  this  would  advertise  itself 
pretty  loudly  in  a  live  camp  five  hundred  yards 
away.  Besides,  it  would  have  had  to  be  drilled 
before  it  could  be  shot,  and  the  drill-holes  would 
show  up — as  they  don't." 

118 


Hoskins's  Ghost 

"Yes,"  was  the  reply;  "I  grant  you  the  drill 
holes.  I  guess  I  have  'got  'em/  as  you  say.  But 
the  bang  wouldn't  count.  Quinlan  let  off  half  a 
dozen  blasts  in  the  quarry  at  quitting  time  yester 
day,  and  one  jar  more  or  less  just  at  that  time 
wouldn't  have  been  noticed." 

Ballard  put  his  arm  across  the  theorist's  shoul 
ders  and  faced  him  about  to  front  the  down-canyon 
industries. 

"You  mustn't  let  this  mystery-smoke  get  into 
your  nostrils,  Loudon,  boy,"  he  said.  "Whatever 
happens,  there  must  always  be  two  cool  heads  and 
two  sets  of  steady  nerves  on  this  job — yours  and 
mine.  Now  let's  go  down  the  railroad  on  the 
push-car  and  see  how  Williams  is  getting  along 
with  his  pick-up  stunt.  He  ought  to  have  the  Two 
standing  on  her  feet  by  this~time." 


119 


XI 
GUN  PLAY 

days  after  the  wreck  in  the  Lava 
A  Hills,  Ballard  was  again  making  the  round 
of  the  outpost  camps  in  the  western  end  of  the 
valley,  verifying  grade  lines,  re-establishing  data 
stakes  lost,  or  destroyed  by  the  Craigmiles  range 
riders,  hustling  the  ditch  diggers,  and,  incidentally, 
playing  host  to  young  Lucius  Bigelow,  the  Forestry 
Service  member  of  Miss  Elsa's  house-party. 

Bigelow's  inclusion  as  a  guest  on  the  inspection 
gallop  had  been  planned,  not  by  his  temporary 
host,  but  by  Miss  Elsa  herself.  Mr.  Bigelow's  time 
was  his  own,  she  had  explained  in  her  note  to  Bal 
lard,  but  he  was  sufficiently  an  enthusiast  in  his 
chosen  profession  to  wish  to  combine  a  field  study 
of  the  Arcadian  watersheds  with  the  pleasures 
of  a  summer  outing.  If  Mr.  Ballard  would  be 
so  kind  .  .  .  and  all  the  other  fitting  phrases 
in  which  my  lady  begs  the  boon  she  may  strictly 
require  at  the  hands  of  the  man  who  has  said  the 
talismanic  words,  "I  love  you." 

120 


Gun  Play 

As  he  was  constrained  to  be,  Ballard  was  punc 
tiliously  hospitable  to  the  quiet,  self-contained 
young  man  who  rode  an  entire  day  at  his  pace 
setter's  side  without  uttering  a  dozen  words  on  his 
own  initiative.  The  hospitality  was  purely  dutiful 
at  first;  but  later  Bigelow  earned  it  fairly.  Making 
no  advances  on  his  own  part,  the  guest  responded 
generously  when  Ballard  drew  him  out;  and  be 
hind  the  mask  of  thoughtful  reticence  the  Ken- 
tuckian  discovered  a  man  of  stature,  gentle  of 
speech,  simple  of  heart,  and  a  past-master  of  the 
wood-  and  plains-craft  that  a  constructing  engineer, 
however  broad-minded,  can  acquire  only  as  his 
work  demands  it. 

"You  gentlemen  of  the  tree  bureau  can  cer 
tainly  give  us  points  on  ordinary  common  sense, 
Mr.  Bigelow,"  Ballard  admitted  on  this,  the  third 
day  out,  when  the  student  of  natural  conditions 
had  called  attention  to  the  recklessness  of  the  con 
tractors  in  cutting  down  an  entire  forest  of  slope- 
protecting  young  pines  to  make  trestle-bents  for  a 
gulch  flume.  "I  am  afraid  I  should  have  done 
precisely  what  Richards  has  done  here:  taken  the 
first  and  most  convenient  timber  I  could  lay  hands 


on." 


"That  is  the  point  of  view  the  Forestry  Service 
is  trying  to  modify,"  rejoined  Bigelow,  mildly. 
"To  the  average  American,  educated  or  ignorant, 

121 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

wood  seems  the  cheapest  material  in  a  world  of 
plenty.  Yet  I  venture  to  say  that  in  this  present 
instance  your  company  could  better  have  afforded 
almost  any  other  material  for  those  trestle-bents. 
That  slope  will  make  you  pay  high  for  its  strip 
ping  before  you  can  grow  another  forest  to  check 
the  flood  wash." 

"Of  course  it  will;  that  says  itself,  now  that  you 
have  pointed  it  out,"  Ballard  agreed.  .  "  Luckily, 
the  present  plans  of  the  company  don't  call  for 
much  flume  timber;  I  say  *  luckily/  because  I 
don't  like  to  do  violence  to  my  convictions,  when 
I'm  happy  enough  to  have  any." 

Bigelow's  grave  smile  came  and  went  like  the 
momentary  glow  from  some  inner  light  of  pre 
science. 

"Unless  I  am  greatly  mistaken,  you  are  a  man 
of  very  strong  convictions,  Mr.  Ballard,"  he  ven 
tured  to  say. 

"Think  so?  I  don't  know.  A  fair  knowledge 
of  my  trade,  a  few  opinions,  and  a  certain  pig 
headed  stubbornness  that  doesn't  know  when  it  is 
beaten:  shake  these  up  together  and  you  have  the 
compound  which  has  misled  you.  I'm  afraid  I 
don't  often  wait  for  convincement — of  the  purely 
philosophical  brand." 

They  were  riding  together  down  the  line  of  the 
northern  lateral  canal,  with  Bourke  Fitzpatrick's 

122 


Gun  Play 

new  headquarters  in  the  field  for  the  prospective 
night's  bivouac.  The  contractor's  camp,  a  dis 
orderly  blot  of  shanties  and  well-weathered  tents 
on  the  fair  grass-land  landscape,  came  in  sight 
just  as  the  sun  was  sinking  below  the  Elks,  and 
Ballard  quickened  the  pace. 

"You'll  be  ready  to  quit  for  the  day  when  we 
get  in,  won't  you  ?"  he  said  to  Bigelow,  when  the 
broncos  came  neck  and  neck  in  the  scurry  for  the 
hay  racks. 

"Oh,  I'm  fit  enough,  by  now,"  was  the  ready 
rejoinder.  "It  was  only  the  first  day  that  got  on 
my  nerves." 

There  was  a  rough-and-ready  welcome  awaiting 
the  chief  engineer  and  his  guest  when  they  drew 
rein  before  Fitzpatrick's  commissary;  and  a  supper 
of  the  void-filling  sort  was  quickly  set  before  them 
in  the  back  room  of  the  contractor's  quarters. 
But  there  was  trouble  in  the  air.  Ballard  saw  that 
Fitzpatrick  was  cruelly  hampered  by  the  presence 
of  Bigelow;  and  when  the  meal  was  finished  he 
gave  the  contractor  his  chance  in  the  privacy  of 
the  little  cramped  pay-office. 

"What  is  it,  Bourke?"  he  asked,  when  the 
closed  door  cut  them  off  from  the  Forest  Service 
man. 

Fitzpatrick  was  shaking  his  head.  "  It's  a  blood 
feud  now,  Mr.  Ballard.  Gallagher's  gang — all 

123 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

Irishmen — went  up  against  four  of  the  colonel's 
men  early  this  morning.  The  b'ys  took  shelter  in 
the  ditch,  and  the  cow-punchers  tried  to  run  'em 
out.  Some  of  our  teamsters  were  armed,  and  one 
of  the  Craigmiles  men  was  killed  or  wounded — we 
don't  know  which :  the  others  picked  him  up  and 
carried  him  off." 

Ballard's  eyes  narrowed  under  his  thoughtful 
frown. 

"I've  been  afraid  it  would  come  to  that,  sooner 
or  later,"  he  said  slowly.  Then  he  added:  "We 
ought  to  be  able  to  stop  it.  The  colonel  seems  to 
deprecate  the  scrapping  part  of  it  as  much  as  we 
do." 

Fitzpatrick's  exclamation  was  of  impatient  dis 
belief.  "Any  time  he'll  hold  up  his  little  finger, 
Mr.  Ballard,  this  monkey-business  will  go  out  like 
a  squib  fuse  in  a  wet  hole!  He  isn't  wanting  to 
stop  it." 

Ballard  became  reflective  again,  and  hazarded 
another  guess. 

"  Perhaps  the  object-lesson  of  this  morning  will 
have  a  good  effect.  A  chance  shot  has  figured  as 
a  peacemaker  before  this." 

"  Don't  you  believe  it's  going  to  work  that  way 
this  time ! "  was  the  earnest  protest.  "  If  the  Craig- 
miles  outfit  doesn't  whirl  in  and  shoot  up  this  camp 
before  to-morrow  morning,  I'm  missing  my  guess." 

124 


Gun  Play 

Ballard  rapped  the  ashes  from  his  briar,  and  re 
filled  and  lighted  it.  When  the  tobacco  was  glow 
ing  in  the  bowl,  he  said,  quite  decisively:  "In 
that  case,  we'll  try  to  give  them  what  they  are 
needing.  Are  you  picketed  ?" 

"No." 

"  See  to  it  at  once.  Make  a  corral  of  the  waggons 
and  scrapers  and  get  the  stock  inside  of  it.  Then 
put  out  a  line  of  sentries,  with  relays  to  relieve  the 
men  every  two  hours.  We  needn't  be  taken  by 
surprise,  whatever  happens." 

Fitzpatrick  jerked  a  thumb  toward  the  outer 
room  where  Bigelow  was  smoking  his  after-supper 
pipe. 

"How  about  your  friend  ?"  he  asked. 

At  the  query  Ballard  realised  that  the  presence 
of  the  Forest  Service  man  was  rather  unfortunate. 
Constructively  his  own  guest,  Bigelow  was  really 
the  guest  of  Colonel  Craigmiles;  and  the  position 
of  a  neutral  in  any  war  is  always  a  difficult  one. 

"Mr.  Bigelow  is  a  member  of  the  house-party 
at  Castle  'Cadia,"  he  said,  in  reply  to  the  contrac 
tor's  doubtful  question.  "  But  I  can  answer  for  his 
discretion.  I'll  tell  him  what  he  ought  to  know, 
and  he  may  do  as  he  pleases." 

Following  out  the  pointing  of  his  own  sugges 
tion,  Ballard  gave  Bigelow  a  brief  outline  of  the 
Arcadian  conflict  while  Fitzpatrick  was  posting  the 

125 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

sentries.  The  Government  man  made  no  com 
ment,  save  to  say  that  it  was  a  most  unhappy 
situation;  but  when  Ballard  offered  to  show  him 
to  his  quarters  for  the  night,  he  protested  at  once. 

"No,  indeed,  Mr.  Ballard,"  he  said,  quite 
heartily,  for  him;  "you  mustn't  leave  me  out  that 
way.  At  the  worst,  you  may  be  sure  that  I  stand 
for  law  and  order.  I  have  heard  something  of 
this  fight  between  your  company  and  the  colonel, 
and  while  I  can't  pretend  to  pass  upon  the  merits 
of  it,  I  don't  propose  to  go  to  bed  and  let  you  stand 
guard  over  me." 

"All  right,  and  thank  you,"  laughed  Ballard; 
and  together  they  went  out  to  help  Fitzpatrick 
with  his  preliminaries  for  the  camp  defence. 

This  was  between  eight  and  nine  o'clock;  and 
by  ten  the  stock  was  corralled  within  the  line  of 
shacks  and  tents,  a  cordon  of  watchers  had  been 
stretched  around  the  camp,  and  the  greater  num 
ber  of  Fitzpatrick's  men  were  asleep  in  the  bunk 
tents  and  shanties. 

The  first  change  of  sentries  was  made  at  mid 
night,  and  Ballard  and  Bigelow  both  walked  the 
rounds  with  Fitzpatrick.  Peace  and  quietness 
reigned  supreme.  The  stillness  of  the  beautiful 
summer  night  was  undisturbed,  and  the  rounds 
men  found  a  good  half  of  the  sentinels  asleep  at 
their  posts.  Ballard  was  disposed  to  make  light 

126 


Gun  Play 

of  Fitzpatrick's  fears,  and  the  contractor  took  it 
rather  hard. 

"I  know  'tis  all  hearsay  with  you,  yet,  Mr. 
Ballard;  you  haven't  been  up  against  it,"  he  pro 
tested,  when  the  three  of  them  were  back  at  the 
camp-fire  which  was  burning  in  front  of  the  com 
missary.  "But  if  you  had  been  scrapping  with 
these  devils  for  the  better  part  of  two  years,  as  we 
have- 

The  interruption  was  a  sudden  quaking  tremor 
of  earth  and  atmosphere  followed  by  a  succession 
of  shocks  like  the  quick  firing  of  a  battleship 
squadron.  A  sucking  draught  of  wind  swept 
through  the  camp,  and  the  fire  leaped  up  as  from 
the  blast  of  an  underground  bellows.  Instantly 
the  open  spaces  of  the  headquarters  were  alive 
with  men  tumbling  from  their  bunks;  and  into 
the  thick  of  the  confusion  rushed  the  lately  posted 
sentries. 

For  a  few  minutes  the  turmoil  threatened  to  be 
come  a  panic,  but  Fitzpatrick  and  a  handful  of  the 
cooler-headed  gang  bosses  got  it  under,  the  more 
easily  since  there  was  no  attack  to  follow  the  ex 
plosions.  Then  came  a  cautious  reconnaissance 
in  force  down  the  line  of  the  canal  in  the  direction 
of  the  earthquake,  and  a  short  quarter  of  a  mile 
below  the  camp  the  scouting  detachment  reached 
the  scene  of  destruction. 

127 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

The  raiders  had  chosen  their  ground  carefully. 
At  a  point  where  the  canal  cutting  passed  through 
the  shoulder  of  a  hill  they  had  planted  charges  of 
dynamite  deep  in  the  clay  of  the  upper  hillside. 
The  explosions  had  started  a  land-slide,  and  the 
patient  digging  work  of  weeks  had  been  obliterated 
in  a  moment. 

Ballard  said  little.  Fitzpatrick  was  on  the 
ground  to  do  the  swearing,  and  the  money  loss  was 
his,  if  Mr.  Pelham's  company  chose  to  make  him 
stand  it.  What  Celtic  rage  could  compass  in  the 
matter  of  cursings  was  not  lacking;  and  at  the 
finish  of  the  outburst  there  was  an  appeal,  vigorous 
and  forceful. 

"You're  the  boss,  Mr.  Ballard,  and  'tis  for  you 
to  say  whether  we  throw  up  this  job  and  quit,  or 
give  these  blank,  blank  imps  iv  hell  what's  comin' 
to  'em!"  was  the  form  the  appeal  took;  and  the 
new  chief  accepted  the  challenge  promptly. 

"What  are  your  means  of  communication  with 
the  towns  in  the  Gunnison  valley?"  he  asked 
abruptly. 

Fitzpatrick  pulled  himself  down  from  the  rage 
heights  and  made  shift  to  answer  as  a  man. 

"  There's  a  bridle  trail  down  the  canyon  to 
Jack's  Cabin;  and  from  that  on  you  hit  the  rail 
road." 

"And  the  distance  to  Jack's  Cabin  ?" 
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Gun  Play 

"Twenty-five  miles,  good  and  strong,  by  the  can 
yon  crookings;  but  only  about  half  of  it  is  bad 
going." 

"  Is  there  anybody  in  your  camp  who  knows  the 
trail?" 

"Yes.     Dick  Carson,  the  water-boy." 

"Good.  We'll  go  back  with  you,  and  you'll  let 
me  have  the  boy  and  two  of  your  freshest  horses." 

"You'll  not  be  riding  that  trail  in  the  dark,  Mr. 
Ballard!  It's  a  fright,  even  in  daylight." 

"That's  my  affair,"  said  the  engineer,  curtly. 
"If  your  boy  can  find  the  trail,  I'll  ride  it." 

That  settled  it  for  the  moment,  and  the  scouting 
party  made  its  way  up  to  the  headquarters  to  carry 
the  news  of  the  landslide.  Bigelow  walked  in 
silence  beside  his  temporary  host,  saying  nothing 
until  after  they  had  reached  camp,  and  Fitzpatrick 
had  gone  to  assemble  the  horses  and  the  guide. 
Then  he  said,  quite  as  if  it  were  a  matter  of  course:: 

"I'm  going  with  you,  Mr.  Ballard,  if  you  don't 
object." 

Ballard  did  object,  pointedly  and  emphatically, 
making  the  most  of  the  night  ride  and  the  hazard 
ous  trail.  When  these  failed  to  discourage  the 
young  man  from  Washington,  the  greater  objec 
tion  came  out  baldly. 

"  You  owe  it  to  your  earlier  host  to  ride  back  to 
Castle  'Cadia  from  here,  Mr.  Bigelow.  I'm  going 

129 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

to  declare  war,  and  you  can't  afford  to  identify 
yourself  with  me,"  was  the  way  Ballard  put  it;  but 
Bigelow  only  smiled  and  shook  his  head. 

"I'm  not  to  be  shunted  quite  so  easily,"  he  said. 
"Unless  you'll  say  outright  that  I'll  be  a  butt-in, 
I'm  going  with  you." 

"All  right;  if  it's  the  thing  you  want  to  do," 
Ballard  yielded.  "Of  course,  I  shall  be  delighted 
to  have  you  along."  And  when  Fitzpatrick  came 
with  two  horses  he  sent  him  back  to  the  corral  for 
a  third. 

The  preparations  for  the  night  ride  were  soon 
made,  and  it  was  not  until  Ballard  and  Bigelow 
were  making  ready  to  mount  at  the  door  of  the 
commissary  that  Fitzpatrick  reappeared  with  the 
guide,  a  grave-faced  lad  who  looked  as  if  he  might 
be  years  older  than  any  guess  his  diminutive  stature 
warranted.  Ballard's  glance  was  an  eye-sweep  of 
shrewd  appraisal. 

"You're  not  much  bigger  than  a  pint  of  cider, 
Dickie  boy,"  he  commented.  "Why  don't  you 
take  a  start  and  grow  some?" 

"I'm  layin' off  to;  when  I  get  time.  Pap  allows 
I  got  to  'r  he  won't  own  to  me,"  said  the  boy  so 
berly. 

"Who  is  your  father?"  The  query  was  a 
mere  fill-in,  bridging  the  momentary  pause  while 
Ballard  was  inspecting  the  saddle  cinchings  of  the 

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Gun  Play 

horse  he  was  to  ride;  and  evidently  the  boy  so 
regarded  it. 

"He's  a  man,''  he  answered  briefly,  adding 
nothing  to  the  supposable  fact. 

Bigelow  was  up,  and  Ballard  was  putting  a  leg 
over  his  wiry  little  mount  when  Fitzpatrick  emerged 
from  the  dimly  lighted  interior  of  the  commissary 
bearing  arms — a  pair  of  short-barrelled  repeating 
rifles  in  saddle-holsters. 

"  Better  be  slinging  these  under  the  stirrup- 
leathers — you  and  your  friend,  Mr.  Ballard,"  he 
suggested.  "All  sorts  of  things  are  liable  to  get  up 
in  the  tall  hills  when  a  man  hasn't  got  a  gun." 

This  was  so  patently  said  for  the  benefit  of  the 
little  circle  of  onlooking  workmen  that  Ballard 
bent  to  the  saddle-horn  while  Fitzpatrick  was 
buckling  the  rifle-holster  in  place. 

"What  is  it,  Bourke  ?"  he  asked  quietly. 

"More  of  the  same,"  returned  the  contractor, 
matching  the  low  tone  of  the  inquiry.  "Craig- 
miles  has  got  his  spies  in  every  camp,  and  you're 
probably  spotted,  same  as  old  man  Macpherson 
used  to  be  when  he  rode  the  work.  If  that  cussed 
Mexican  foreman  does  be  getting  wind  of  this,  and 
shy  a  guess  at  why  you're  heading  for  Jack's  Cabin 
and  the  railroad  in  the  dead  o'  night— 

Ballard's  exclamation  was  impatient. 

"This  thing  has  got  on  your  digestion,  Bourke," 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

he  said,  rallying  the  big  contractor.  "Up  at  the 
Elbow  Canyon  camp  it's  a  hoodoo  bogey,  and  down 
here  it's  the  Craigmiles  cow-boys.  Keep  your  shirt 
on,  and  we'll  stop  it — stop  it  short."  Then,  lower 
ing  his  voice  again:  "Is  the  boy  trustworthy?" 

Fitzpatrick's  shrug  was  more  French  than  Irish. 

"He  can  show  you  the  trail;  and  he  hates  the 
Craigmiles  outfit  as  the  devil  hates  holy  water. 
His  father  was  a  '  rustler/  and  the  colonel  got  him 
sent  over  the  road  for  cattle-stealing.  Dick  comes 
of  pretty  tough  stock,  but  I  guess  he'll  do  you 
right." 

Ballard  nodded,  found  his  seat  in  the  saddle,  and 
gave  the  word. 

"Pitch  out,  Dick,"  he  commanded;  and  the 
small  cavalcade  of  three  skirted  the  circle  of  tents 
and  shacks  to  take  the  westward  trail  in  single 
file,  the  water-boy  riding  in  advance  and  the  For 
estry  man  bringing  up  the  rear. 

In  this  order  the  three  passed  the  scene  of  the 
assisted  landslide,  where  the  acrid  fumes  of  the 
dynamite  were  still  hanging  in  the  air,  and  came 
upon  ground  new  to  Bigelow  and  practically  so  to 
Ballard.  For  a  mile  or  more  the  canal  line  hugged 
the  shoulders  of  the  foothills,  doubling  and  revers 
ing  until  only  the  steadily  rising  sky-line  of  the 
Elks  gave  evidence  of  its  progress  westward. 

As  in  its  earlier  half,  the  night  was  still  and 
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Gun  Play 

cloudless,  and  the  stars  burned  with  the  white 
lustre  of  the  high  altitudes,  swinging  slowly  to  the 
winding  course  in  their  huge  inverted  bowl  of  vel 
vety  blackness.  From  camp  to  camp  on  the  canal 
grade  there  was  desertion  absolute;  and  even 
Bigelow,  with  ears  attuned  to  the  alarm  sounds  of 
the  wilds,  had  heard  nothing  when  the  cavalcade 
came  abruptly  upon  Riley's  camp,  the  outpost  of 
the  ditch-diggers. 

At  Riley's  they  found  only  the  horse-watchers 
awake.  From  these  they  learned  that  the  distant 
booming  of  the  explosions  had  aroused  only  a  few 
of  the  lightest  sleepers.  Ballard  made  inquiry 
pointing  to  the  Craigmiles  riders.  Had  any  of 
them  been  seen  in  the  vicinity  of  the  outpost  camp  ? 

"Not  since  sundown,"  was  the  horse-watcher's 
answer.  "About  an  hour  before  candle-lightin', 
two  of  'em  went  ridin'  along  up-river,  drivin'  a 
little  bunch  o'  cattle." 

The  engineer  gathered  rein  and  was  about  to 
pull  his  horse  once  more  into  the  westward  trail, 
when  the  boy  guide  put  in  his  word. 

"Somebody's  taggin'  us,  all  right,  if  that's  what 
you're  aimin'  to  find  out,"  he  said,  quite  coolly. 

Ballard  started.  "  What's  that  ? "  he  demanded. 
"How  do  you  know  ?" 

"  Been  listenin' — when  you-all  didn't  make  so 
much  noise  that  I  couldn't,"  was  the  calm  rejoin- 

133 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

der.     "  There's  two  of  'em,  and  they  struck  in  just 
after  we  passed  the  dynamite  heave-down." 

Ballard  bent  his  head  and  listened.  "I  don't 
hear  anything,"  he  objected. 

"Nachelly,"  said  the  boy.  "They-all  ain't  sech 
tenderfoots  as  to  keep  on  comin'  when  we've 
stopped.  Want  to  dodge  'em?" 

'There's  no  question  about  that,"  was  the  man 
datory  reply. 

The  sober-faced  lad  took  a  leaf  out  of  the  book 
of  the  past — his  own  or  his  cattle-stealing  father's. 

"We  got  to  stampede  your  stock  a  few  lines, 
Pete,"  he  said,  shortly,  to  the  horse-watcher  who 
had  answered  Ballard's  inquiry.  "Get  up  and 
pull  your  picket-pins." 

"Is  that  right,  Mr.  Ballard  ?"  asked  the  man. 

"It  is  if  Dick  says  so.     I'll  back  his  orders. 

The  boy  gave  the  orders  tersely  after  the  horse- 
guard  had  risen  and  kicked  his  two  companions 
awake.  The  night  herdsmen  were  to  pick  and 
saddle  their  own  mounts,  and  to  pull  the  picket- 
pins  for  the  grazing  mule  drove.  While  this  was 
doing,  the  small  plotter  vouchsafed  the  necessary 
word  of  explanation  to  Ballard  and  Bigelow. 

"We  ride  into  the  bunch  and  stampede  it,  headin5" 
it  along  the  trail  the  way  we're  goin'.  After  we've 
done  made  noise  enough  and  tracks  enough,  and 
gone  far  enough  to  make  them  fellers  lose  the 

134 


Gun  Play 

sound  of  us  that  they've  been  follerin',  we  cut  out 
of  the  crowd  and  make  our  little  pasear  down 
canyon,  and  the  herd-riders  can  chase  out  and 
round  up  their  stock  again:  see?" 

Ballard  made  the  sign  of  acquiescence;  and 
presently  the  thing  was  done  substantially  as  the 
boy  had  planned.  The  grazing  mules,  startled  by 
the  sudden  dash  of  the  three  mounted  broncos 
among  them,  and  helped  along  by  a  few  judicious 
quirt  blows,  broke  and  ran  in  frightened  panic, 
carrying  the  three  riders  in  the  thick  of  the  rout. 

Young  Carson,  skilful  as  the  son  of  the  convict 
stock-lifter  had  been  trained  to  be,  deftly  herded 
the  thundering  stampede  in  the  desired  direction; 
and  at  the  end  of  a  galloping  mile  abruptly  gave 
the  shrill  yell  of  command  to  the  two  men  whom 
he  was  piloting.  There  was  a  swerve  aside  out 
of  the  pounding  melee,  a  dash  for  an  opening 
between  the  swelling  foothills,  and  the  ruck  of 
snorting  mules  swept  on  in  a  broad  circle  that 
would  later  make  recapture  by  the  night  herders 
a  simple  matter  of  gathering  up  the  trailing  picket- 
ropes. 

The  three  riders  drew  rein  in  the  shelter  of  the 
arroyo  gulch  to  breathe  their  horses,  and  Ballard 
gave  the  boy  due  credit. 

"That  was  very  neatly  done,  Dick,"  he  said, 
when  the  thunder  of  the  pounding  hoofs  had  died 

135 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

away  in  the  up-river  distances.  "Is  it  going  to 
bump  those  fellows  off  of  our  trail  ?" 

The  water-boy  was  humped  over  the  horn  of 
his  saddle  as  if  he  had  found  a  stomach-ache  in 
the  breathless  gallop.  But  he  was  merely  listen 
ing. 

"I  ain't  reskin'  any  money  on  it,"  he  qualified. 
"If  them  cow-punch's  've  caught  on  to  where 
you're  goin',  and  what  you're  goin'  fer 

Out  of  the  stillness  filling  the  hill-gorge  like  a 
black  sea  of  silence  came  a  measured  thudding  of 
hoofs  and  an  unmistakable  squeaking  of  saddle 
leather.  Like  a  flash  the  boy  was  afoot  and  reach 
ing  under  his  bronco's  belly  for  a  tripping  hold  on 
the  horse's  forefoot.  "Down!  and  pitch  the  cay- 
uses!"  he  quavered  stridently;  and  as  the  three 
horses  rolled  in  the  dry  sand  of  the  arroyo  bed  with 
their  late  riders  flattened  upon  their  heads,  the  in 
ner  darkness  of  the  gorge  spat  fire  and  there  was  a 
fine  singing  whine  of  bullets  overhead. 


XII 
THE  RUSTLERS 

IN  defiance  of  all  the  laws  of  precedence,  it  was 
the  guest  who  first  rose  to  the  demands  of  the 
spiteful  occasion.  While  Ballard  was  still  strug 
gling  with  the  holster  strappings  of  his  rifle,  Big- 
elow  had  disengaged  his  weapon  and  was  indus 
triously  pumping  a  rapid-fire  volley  into  the  flame- 
spitting  darkness  of  the  gorge. 

The  effect  of  the  prompt  reply  in  kind  was 
quickly  made  manifest.  The  firing  ceased  as  ab 
ruptly  as  it  had  begun,  a  riderless  horse  dashed 
snorting  down  the  bed  of  the  dry  arroyo,  narrowly 
missing  a  stumbling  collision  with  the  living  ob 
structions  lying  in  his  way,  and  other  gallopings 
were  heard  withdrawing  into  the  hill-shadowed 
obscurities. 

It  was  Ballard  who  took  the  water-boy  to 
task  when  they  had  waited  long  enough  to  be 
measurably  certain  that  the  attackers  had  left 
the  field. 

"You  were  mistaken,  Dick,"  he  said,  breaking 
137 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

the  strained  silence.  '  There  were  more  than  two 
of  them." 

Young  Carson  was  getting  his  horse  up,  and  he 
appeared  to  be  curiously  at  fault. 

"You're  plumb  right,  Cap'n  Ballard,"  he  ad 
mitted.  "But  that  ain't  what's  pinchin'  me: 
there's  always  enough  of  'em  night-herdin'  this 
end  of  the  range  so  'at  they  could  have  picked  up 
another  hand  'r  two.  What  I  cayn't  tumble  to  is 
how  they-all  out-rid  us." 

"To  get  ahead  of  us,  you  mean  ?" 

"That's  it.  We're  in  the  neck  of  a  little  hog 
back  draw  that  goes  on  down  to  the  big  canyon. 
The  only  other  trail  into  the  draw  is  along  by  the 
river  and  up  this-a-way — 'bout  a  mile  and  a  half 
furder  'n  the  road  we  come,  I  reckon." 

It  was  the  persistent  element  of  mystery  once 
more  thrusting  itself  into  the  prosaic  field  of  the 
industries;  but  before  Ballard  could  grapple  with 
it,  the  fighting  guest  cut  in  quietly. 

"One  of  their  bullets  seems  to  have  nipped  me 
in  the  arm,"  he  said,  admitting  the  fact  half  re 
luctantly  and  as  if  it  were  something  to  be  ashamed 
of.  "Will  you  help  me  tie  it  up  ?" 

Ballard  came  out  of  the  speculative  fog  with  a 
bound. 

"Good  heavens,  Bigelow!  are  you  hit?  Why 
didn't  you  say  something?"  he  exclaimed,  diving 

138 


The  Rustlers 

into  the  pockets  of  his  duck  coat  for  matches  and 
a  candle-end. 

"It  wasn't  worth  while;  it's  only  a  scratch,  I 
guess." 

But  the  lighted  candle-end  proved  it  to  be  some 
thing  more;  a  ragged  furrow  plowed  diagonally 
across  the  forearm.  Ballard  dressed  it  as  well  as 
he  could,  the  water-boy  holding  the  candle,  and 
when  the  rough  job  of  surgery  was  done,  was  for 
sending  the  Forestry  man  back  to  the  valley  head 
and  Castle  'Cadia  with  the  wound  for  a  sufficient 
reason.  But  Bigelow  developed  a  sudden  vein  of 
stubbornness.  He  would  neither  go  back  alone, 
nor  would  he  consent  to  be  escorted. 

"A  little  thing  like  this  is  all  in  the  day's  work," 
he  protested.  "We'll  go  on,  when  you're  ready; 
or,  rather,  we'll  go  and  hunt  for  the  owner  of  that 
horse  whose  saddle  I  suppose  I  must  have  emptied. 
I'm  just  vindictive  enough  to  hope  that  its  rider 
was  the  fellow  who  pinked  me." 

As  it  happened,  the  hope  was  to  be  neither  con 
firmed  nor  positively  denied.  A  little  farther  up 
the  dry  arroyo  the  candle-end,  sputtering  to  its 
extinction,  showed  them  a  confusion  of  hoof 
tramplings  in  the  yielding  sand,  but  nothing  more. 
Dead  or  wounded,  the  horse-losing  rider  had  evi 
dently  been  carried  off  by  his  companions. 

"Which  proves  pretty  conclusively  that  there 
139 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

must  have  been  more  than  two/'  was  Ballard's 
deduction,  when  they  were  again  pushing  cau 
tiously  down  the  inner  valley  toward  its  junction 
with  the  great  canyon.  "  But  why  should  two,  or 
a  dozen  of  them,  fire  on  us  in  the  dark  ?  How  could 
they  know  whether  we  were  friends  or  enemies  ?" 

Bigelow's  quiet  laugh  had  a  touch  of  grimness 
in  it. 

"Your  Elbow  Canyon  mysteries  have  broken 
bounds,"  he  suggested.  "Your  staff  should  in 
clude  an  expert  psychologist,  Mr.  Ballard." 

Ballard's  reply  was  belligerent.  "If  we  had 
one,  I'd  swap  him  for  a  section  of  mounted  police," 
he  declared;  and  beyond  that  the  narrow  trail  in 
the  cliff-walled  gorge  of  the  Boiling  Water  forbade 
conversation. 

Three  hours  farther  down  the  river  trail,  when 
the  summer  dawn  was  paling  the  stars  in  the  nar 
row  strip  of  sky  overhead,  the  perpendicular  walls 
of  the  great  canyon  gave  back  a  little,  and  looking 
past  the  water-boy  guide,  Ballard  saw  an  opening 
marking  the  entrance  of  a  small  tributary  stream 
from  the  north;  a  little  green  oasis  in  the  vast 
desert  of  frowning  cliffs  and  tumbled  boulders, 
with  a  log  cabin  and  a  tiny  corral  nestling  under 
the  portal  rock  of  the  smaller  stream. 

"Hello!"  said  Bigelow,  breaking  the  silence 
in  which  they  had  been  riding  for  the  greater 

140 


The  Rustlers 

part   of  the   three   hours,    "what's   this  we   are 
coming  to  ?" 

Ballard  was  about  to  pass  the  query  on  to  the 
boy  when  an  armed  man  in  the  flapped  hat  and 
overalls  of  a  range  rider  stepped  from  behind  a 
boulder  and  barred  the  way.  There  was  a  halt, 
an  exchange  of  words  between  young  Carson  and 
the  flap-hatted  trail-watcher  in  tones  so  low  as  to 
be  inaudible  to  the  others,  and  the  armed  one  faced 
about,  rather  reluctantly,  it  seemed,  to  lead  the 
way  to  the  cabin  under  the  clifF. 

At  the  dismounting  before  the  cabin  door,  the 
boy  cleared  away  a  little  of  the  mystery. 

"This  yere  is  whar  I  live  when  I'm  at  home," 
he  drawled,  lapsing  by  the  influence  of  the  propin 
quity  into  the  Tennessee  idiom  which  was  his  birth 
right.  "Pap'll  get  ye  your  breakfas'  while  I'm 
feedin'  the  bronc's." 

Ballard  glanced  quickly  at  his  guest  and  met  the 
return  glance  of  complete  intelligence  in  the  steady 
gray  eyes  of  the  Forestry  man.  The  cabin  and 
the  corral  in  the  secluded  canyon  were  sufficiently 
accounted  for.  But  one  use  could  be  made  of  a 
stock  enclosure  in  such  an  inaccessible  mountain 
fastness.  The  trail  station  in  the  heart  of  the 
Boiling  Water  wilderness  was  doubtless  the  head 
quarters  of  the  "rustlers"  who  lived  by  preying 
upon  the  King  of  Arcadia's  flocks  and  herds. 

141 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

"Your  allies  in  the  little  war  against  Colonel 
Craigmiles,"  said  Bigelow,  and  there  was  some 
thing  like  a  touch  of  mild  reproach  in  his  low 
tone  when  he  added:  "Misery  isn't  the  only 
thing  that  '  acquaints  a  man  with  strange  bed 
fellows.'" 

"Apparently  not,"  said  Ballard;  and  they 
went  together  into  the  kitchen  half  of  the  cabin 
which  was  built,  in  true  Tennessee  fashion,  as 
"two  pens  and  a  passage." 

The  welcome  accorded  them  by  the  sullen- 
faced  man  who  was  already  frying  rashers  of  bacon 
over  the  open  fire  on  the  hearth  was  not  especially 
cordial.  "  Mek'  ye  an  arm  and  re'ch  for  yerselves," 
was  his  sole  phrase  of  hospitality,  when  the  bacon 
and  pan-bread  were  smoking  on  the  huge  hewn 
slab  which  served  for  a  table;  and  he  neither  ate 
with  his  guests  nor  waited  upon  them,  save  to  re 
fill  the  tin  coffee  cups  as  they  were  emptied. 

Neither  of  the  two  young  men  stayed  longer 
than  they  were  obliged  to  in  the  dirty,  leather- 
smelling  kitchen.  There  was  freedom  outside, 
with  the  morning  world  of  fresh,  zestful  immen 
sities  for  a  smoking-room;  and  when  they  had 
eaten,  they  went  to  sit  on  a  flat  rock  by  the  side  of 
the  little  stream  to  fill  and  light  their  pipes,  Ballard 
crumbling  the  cut-plug  and  stoppering  the  pipe 
for  his  crippled  companion. 

142 


The  Rustlers 

"How  is  the  bullet-gouge  by  this  time?"  he 
questioned,  when  the  tobacco  was  alight. 

"It's  pretty  sore,  and  no  mistake,"  Bigelow 
acknowledged  frankly.  Whereupon  Ballard  in 
sisted  upon  taking  the  bandages  off  and  re-drecsing 
the  wound,  with  the  crystal-clear,  icy  water  of  the 
mountain  stream  for  its  cleansing. 

"It  was  a  sheer  piece  of  idiocy  on  my  part — 
letting  you  come  on  with  me  after  you  got  this," 
was  his  verdict,  when  he  had  a  daylight  sight  of  the 
bullet  score.  "  But  I  don't  mean  to  be  idiotic  twice 
in  the  same  day,"  he  went  on.  "  You're  going  to 
stay  right  here  and  keep  quiet  until  we  come  along 
back  and  pick  you  up,  late  this  afternoon." 

Bigelow  made  a  wry  face. 

"  Nice,  cheerful  prospect,"  he  commented.  "  The 
elder  cattle  thief  isn't  precisely  one's  ideal  of  the  jo 
vial  host.  By  the  way,  what  was  the  matter  with  him 
while  we  were  eating  breakfast  ?  He  looked  and 
acted  as  if  there  were  a  sick  child  in  some  one  of  the 
dark  corners  which  he  was  afraid  we  might  disturb." 

Ballard  nodded.  "I  was  wondering  if  you  re 
marked  it.  Did  you  hear  the  sick  baby?" 

"  I  heard  noises — besides  those  that  Carson  was 
so  carefully  making  with  the  skillet  and  the  tin 
plates.  The  room  across  the  passage  from  us 
wasn't  empty." 

"That  was  my  guess,"  rejoined  Ballard,  pulling 
143 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

thoughtfully  at  his  short  pipe.  "  I  heard  voices  and 
tramplings,  and,  once  in  a  while,  something  that 
sounded  remarkably  like  a  groan — or  an  oath." 

Bigelow  nodded  in  his  turn.  "More  of  the 
mysteries,  you'd  say;  but  this  time  they  don't  es 
pecially  concern  us.  Have  you  fully  made  up  your 
mind  to  leave  me  here  while  you  go  on  down  to 
the  railroad  ?  Because  if  you  have,  you  and  the 
boy  will  have  to  compel  my  welcome  from  the  old 
robber:  I'd  never  have  the  face  to  ask  him  fora 
whole  day's  hospitality." 

"I'll  fix  that,"  said  Ballard,  and  when  the  boy 
came  from  the  corral  with  the  saddled  horses,  he 
went  to  do  it,  leaving  Bigelow  to  finish  his  pipe  on 
the  flat  rock  of  conference. 

The  "fixing"  was  not  accomplished  without 
some  difficulty,  as  it  appeared  to  the  young  man 
sitting  on  the  flat  stone  at  the  stream  side.  Dick 
brought  his  father  to  the  door,  and  Ballard  did  the 
talking — considerably  more  of  it  than  might  have 
been  deemed  necessary  for  the  simple  request  to 
be  proffered.  At  the  end  of  the  talk,  Ballard  came 
back  to  the  flat  stone. 

"You  stay,"  he  said  briefly  to  Bigelow.  "Car 
son  will  give  you  your  dinner.  But  he  says  he  has 
a  sick  man  on  his  hands  in  the  cabin,  and  you'll 
have  to  excuse  him." 

"He  was  willing?"  queried  Bigelow. 
144 


The  Rustlers 

"No;  he  wasn't  at  all  willing.  He  acted  as  if 
he  were  a  loaded  camel,  and  your  staying  was 
going  to  be  the  final  back-breaking  straw.  But 
he's  a  Tennessean,  and  we've  been  kind  to  his  boy. 
The  ranch  is  yours  for  the  day,  only  if  I  were  you, 
I  shouldn't  make  too  free  use  of  it." 

Bigelow  smiled. 

"I'll  be  'meachum'  and  keep  fair  in  the  middle 
of  the  road.  I  don't  know  anything  that  a  prose 
cuting  attorney  could  make  use  of  against  the  man 
who  has  given  me  my  breakfast,  and  who  promises 
to  give  me  my  dinner,  and  I  don't  want  to  know 
anything.  Please  don't  waste  any  more  daylight 
on  me:  Dick  has  the  horses  ready,  and  he  is  evi 
dently  growing  anxious." 

Ballard  left  the  Forestry  man  smoking  and  sun 
ning  himself  on  the  flat  boulder  when  he  took  the 
down-canyon  trail  with  the  sober-faced  boy  for  his 
file  leader,  and  more  than  once  during  the  rather 
strenuous  day  to  which  the  pocket-gulch  incident 
was  the  introduction,  his  thoughts  went  back  to 
Bigelow,  marooned  in  the  depths  of  the  great  can 
yon  with  the  saturnine  cattle  thief,  the  sick  man,  and 
doubtless  other  members  of  the  band  of  "rustlers." 

It  was  therefore,  with  no  uncertain  feeling  of 
relief  that  he  returned  in  the  late  afternoon  at  the 
head  of  a  file  of  as  hard-looking  miscreants  as  ever 
were  gathered  in  a  sheriff's  posse,  and  found 

145 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

Bigelow  sitting  on  the  step  of  the  Carson  cabin, 
still  nursing  the  bandaged  arm,  and  still  smoking 
the  pipe  of  patience. 

"I'm  left  to  do  the  honours,  gentlemen,"  said 
the  Forestry  man,  rising  and  smiling  quaintly. 
"The  owner  of  the  ranch  regrets  to  say  that  he  has 
been  unavoidably  called  away;  but  the  feed  in  the 
corral  and  the  provisions  in  the  kitchen  are  yours 
for  the  taking  and  the  cooking." 

The  sheriff,  a  burly  giant  whose  face,  figure, 
garmenting  and  graceful  saddle-seat  proclaimed 
the  ex-cattleman,  laughed  appreciatively. 

"Bat  Carson  knows  a  healthy  climate  as  far  as 
he  can  see  the  sun  a-shinin',"  he  chuckled;  and 
then  to  his  deputies:  "Light  down,  boys,  and  we'll 
see  what  sort  o'  chuck  he's  left  for  us." 

In  the  dismounting  Ballard  drew  Bigelow  aside. 
"What  has  happened?"  he  asked. 

"You  can  prove  nothing  by  me,"  returned 
Bigelow,  half  quizzically.  "I've  been  asleep  most 
of  the  day.  When  I  woke  up,  an  hour  or  so  ago, 
the  doors  were  open  and  the  cabin  was  empty. 
Also,  there  was  a  misspelled  note  charcoaled  on  a 
box-cover  in  the  kitchen,  making  us  free  of  the 
horse-bait  and  the  provisions.  Also,  again,  a 
small  bunch  of  cattle  that  I  had  seen  grazing  in  a 
little  park  up  the  creek  had  disappeared." 

"Urn,"  said  Ballard,  discontentedly.  "All  of 
146 


The  Rustlers 

which  makes  us  accessories  after  the  fact  in  another 
raid  on  Colonel  Craigmiles's  range  herd.  I  don't 
like  that." 

"Nor  do  I,"  Bigelow  agreed.  "But  you  can't 
eat  a  man's  bread,  and  then  stay  awake  to  see 
which  way  he  escapes.  I'm  rather  glad  I  was 
sleepy  enough  not  to  be  tempted.  Which  reminds 
me:  you  must  be  about  all  in  on  that  score  your 
self,  Mr.  Ballard." 

"I  ?  Oh,  no;  I  got  in  five  or  six  hours  on  the 
railroad  train,  going  and  coming  between  Jack's 
Cabin  and  the  county  seat." 

The  posse  members  were  tramping  into  the 
kitchen  to  ransack  it  for  food  and  drink,  and 
Bigelow  stood  still  farther  aside. 

"You  managed  to  gather  up  a  beautiful  lot  of 
cutthroats  in  the  short  time  at  your  disposal,"  he 
remarked. 

"  Didn't  I  ?  And  now  you  come  against  one  of 
my  weaknesses,  Bigelow:  I  can't  stay  mad.  Last 
night  I  thought  I'd  be  glad  to  see  a  bunch  of  the 
colonel's  cow-boys  well  hanged.  To-day  I'm  sick 
and  ashamed  to  be  seen  tagging  this  crew  of  hired 
sure-shots  into  the  colonel's  domain." 

"Just  keep  on  calling  it  the  Arcadia  Company's 
domain,  and  perhaps  the  feeling  will  wear  off," 
suggested  the  Forestry  man. 

"It's  no  joke,"  said  Ballard,  crustily;   and  then 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

he  went  in  to  take  his  chance  of  supper  with  the 
sheriff  and  his  "sure-shots." 

There  was  still  sufficient  daylight  for  the  upper 
canyon  passage  when  the  rough-riders  had  eaten 
Carson  out  of  house  and  home,  and  were  mounted 
again  for  the  ascent  to  the  Kingdom  of  Arcadia. 
In  the  up-canyon  climb,  the  sheriff  kept  the  boy, 
Dick,  within  easy  bridle  clutch,  remembering  a 
certain  other  canyon  faring  in  which  the  cattle 
thief's  son  had  narrowly  missed  putting  his  father's 
captors,  men  and  horses,  into  the  torrent  of  the 
Boiling  Water.  ,  Ballard  and  Bigelow  rode  ahead; 
and  when  the  thunderous  diapason  of  the  river 
permitted,  they  talked. 

"How  did  they  manage  to  move  the  sick  man  ?" 
asked  Ballard,  when  the  trail  and  the  stream  gave 
him  leave. 

"That  is  another  of  the  things  that  I  don't  know; 
I'm  a  leather-bound  edition  of  an  encyclopaedia 
when  it  comes  to  matters  of  real  information,"  was 
the  ironical  answer.  "But  your  guess  of  this 
morning  was  right;  there  was  a  sick  man — sick 
or  hurt  some  way.  I  took  the  liberty  of  investi 
gating  a  little  when  I  awoke  and  found  the  ranch 
deserted.  The  other  room  of  the  cabin  was  a 
perfect  shambles." 

"Blood?"  queried  the  engineer;  and  Bigeiow 
nodded. 

148 


The  Rustlers 

"Blood  everywhere." 

"A  falling-out  among  thieves,  I  suppose,"  said 
Ballard,  half-absently;  and  again  Bigelow  said: 
"I  don't  know." 

"The  boy  knows,"  was  Ballard's  comment. 
"He  knew  before  he  left  the  ranch  this  morning. 
I  haven't  been  able  to  get  a  dozen  words  out  of  him 
all  day." 

Just  here  both  stream-noise  and  trail-narrowing 
cut  in  to  forbid  further  talk,  and  Bigelow  drew  back 
to  let  Ballard  lead  in  the  single-file  progress  along 
the  edge  of  the  torrent. 

It  was  in  this  order  that  they  came  finally  into 
the  Arcadian  grass -lands,  through  a  portal  as 
abrupt  as  a  gigantic  doorway.  It  was  the  hour  of 
sunset  for  the  high  peaks  of  the  Elk  range,  and  the 
purple  shadows  were  already  gathering  among  the 
rounded  hills  of  the  hogback.  Off  to  the  left  the 
two  advanced  riders  of  the  posse  cavalcade  saw 
the  evening  kitchen-smoke  of  Riley's  ditch-camp. 
On  the  hills  to  the  right  a  few  cattle  were  grazing 
unherded. 

But  two  things  in  the  prospect  conspired  to  make 
Ballard  draw  rein  so  suddenly  as  to  bring  him 
awkwardly  into  collision  with  his  follower.  One 
was  a  glimpse  of  the  Castle  'Cadia  touring  car 
trundling  swiftly  away  to  the  eastward  on  the 
river  road;  and  the  other  was  a  slight  barrier  of 

149 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

tree  branches  piled  across  the  trail  fairly  under  his 
horse's  nose.  Stuck  upon  a  broken  twig  of  the 
barrier  was  a  sheet  of  paper;  and  there  was  still 
sufficient  light  to  enable  the  chief  engineer  to  read 
the  type-written  lines  upon  it  when  he  dropped 
from  the  saddle. 

"Mr.  Ballard:"  it  ran.  "You  are  about  to  com 
mit  an  act  of  the  crudest  injustice.  Take  the  ad 
vice  of  an  anxious  friend,  and  quench  the  fire  of 
enmity  before  it  gets  beyond  control." 

There  was  no  signature;  and  Ballard  was  still 
staring  after  the  disappearing  automobile  when  he 
mechanically  passed  the  sheet  of  paper  up  to 
Bigelow.  The  Forestry  man  read  the  type-written 
note  and  glanced  back  at  the  sheriff's  posse  just 
emerging  from  the  canyon  portal. 

"What  will  you  do?"  he  asked;  and  Ballard 
came  alive  with  a  start  and  shook  his  head. 

"I  don't  know:  if  we  could  manage  to  overtake 
that  auto.  .  .  .  But  it's  too  late  now  to  do  anything, 
Bigelow.  I've  made  my  complaint  and  sworn  out 
the  warrants.  Beckwith  will  serve  them — he's 
obliged  to  serve  them." 

"Of  course,"  said  Bigelow;  and  together  they 
waited  for  the  sheriff's  posse  to  close  up. 


150 


XIII 
THE  LAW  AND  THE  LADY 

IT  touched  a  little  spring  of  wonderment  in 
the  Forestry  man  when  Ballard  made  the 
waiting  halt  merely  an  excuse  for  a  word  of  leave- 
taking  with  Sheriff  Beckwith;  a  brittle  exchange  of 
formalities  in  which  no  mention  was  made  of  the  in 
cident  of  the  brush  barrier  and  the  type-written  note. 

"You  have  your  warrants,  and  you  know  your 
way  around  in  the  valley;  you  won't  need  me," 
was  the  manner  in  which  the  young  engineer  drew 
out  of  the  impending  unpleasantness.  "  When  you 
have  taken  your  prisoners  to  the  county  seat,  the 
company's  attorneys  will  do  the  rest." 

Beckwith,  being  an  ex-cattleman,  was  grimly 
sarcastic. 

4 This  is  my  job,  and  I'll  do  it  up  man-size  and 
b'ligerent,  Mr.  Ballard.  But  between  us  three  and 
the  gate-post,  you  ain't  goin'  to  make  anything  by 
it — barrin'  a  lot  o'  bad  blood.  The  old  colonel  '11 
give  a  bond  and  bail  his  men,  and  there  you  are 
again,  right  where  you  started  from." 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

"That's  all  right;  I  believe  in  the  law,  and  I'm 
giving  it  a  chance,"  snapped  Ballard;  and  the  two 
parties  separated,  the  sheriff's  posse  taking  the  river 
road,  and  Ballard  leading  the  way  across  country  in 
the  direction  of  Fitzpatrick's  field  headquarters. 

Rather  more  than  half  of  the  distance  from  the 
canyon  head  to  the  camp  had  been  covered  before 
the  boy,  Carson,  had  lagged  far  enough  behind  to 
give  Bigelow  a  chance  for  free  speech  with  Bal 
lard,  but  the  Forestry  man  improved  the  oppor 
tunity  as  soon  as  it  was  given  him. 

"You  still  believe  there  is  no  hope  of  a  com 
promise?"  he  began.  "What  the  sheriff  said  a 
few  minutes  ago  is  quite  true,  you  know.  The 
cow-boys  will  be  back  in  a  day  or  two,  and  it  will 
make  bad  blood." 

"Excuse  me,"  said  Ballard,  irritably;  "you  are 
an  onlooker,  Mr.  Bigelow,  and  you  can  afford  to 
pose  as  a  peacemaker.  But  I've  had  all  I  can 
stand.  If  Colonel  Craigmiles  can't  control  his 
flap-hatted  bullies,  we'll  try  to  help  him.  There 
is  a  week's  work  for  half  a  hundred  men  and  teams 
lying  in  that  ditch  over  yonder,"  pointing  with  his 
quirt  toward  the  dynamited  cutting.  "Do  you 
think  I'm  going  to  lie  down  and  let  these  cattle- 
punchers  ride  rough-shod  over  me  and  the  com 
pany  I  represent  ?  Not  to-day,  or  any  other  day, 
I  assure  you." 

152 


The  Law  and  the  Lady 

"Then  you  entirely  disregard  the  little  type 
written  note  ?" 

"  In  justice  to  my  employers,  I  am  bound  to  call 
Colonel  Craigmiles's  bluff,  whatever  form  it  takes." 

Bigelow  rode  in  silence  for  the  next  hundred 
yards.  Then  he  began  again. 

"It  doesn't  seem  like  the  colonel:  to  go  at  you 
indirectly  that  way." 

"He  was  in  that  automobile:  I  saw  him.  The 
notice  could  scarcely  have  been  posted  without  his 
knowledge." 

"No,"  Bigelow  agreed,  slowly.  But  imme 
diately  afterward  he  added:  "There  were  others 
in  the  car." 

"I  know  it — four  or  five  of  them.  But  that 
doesn't  let  the  colonel  out." 

Again  Bigelow  relapsed  into  silence,  and  the 
camp-fires  of  Fitzpatrick's  headquarters  were  in 
sight  when  he  said: 

"You  confessed  to  me  a  few  hours  ago  that  one 
of  your  weaknesses  was  the  inability  to  stay  angry. 
Will  you  pardon  me  if  I  say  that  it  seems  to  have 
its  compensation  in  the  law  of  recurrences  ?" 

Ballard's  laugh  was  frankly  apologetic.  "You 
may  go  farther  and  say  that  I  am  ill-mannered 
enough  to  quarrel  with  a  good  friend  who  cheer 
fully  gets  himself  shot  up  in  my  behalf.  Overlook 
it,  Mr.  Bigelow;  and  I'll  try  to  remember  that  I 

153 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

am  a  partisan,  while  you  are  only  a  good-natured 
non-combatant.  This  little  affair  is  a  fact  accom 
plished,  so  far  as  we  are  concerned.  The  colonel's 
cow-men  dynamited  our  ditch;  Sheriff  Beckwith 
will  do  his  duty;  and  the  company's  attorney  will 
see  to  it  that  somebody  pays  the  penalty.  Let's 
drop  it — as  between  us  two." 

Being  thus  estopped,  Bigelow  held  his  peace; 
and  a  little  later  they  were  dismounting  before  the 
door  of  Fitzpatrick's  commissary.  When  the  con 
tractor  had  welcomed  and  fed  them,  Ballard  rolled 
into  the  nearest  bunk  and  went  to  sleep  to  make  up 
the  arrearages,  leaving  his  guest  to  smoke  alone. 
Bigelow  took  his  desertion  good-naturedly,  and 
sat  for  an  hour  or  more  on  a  bench  in  front  of  the 
storeroom,  puffing  quietly  at  his  pipe,  and  taking 
an  onlooker's  part  in  the  ditch-diggers'  games  of 
dice-throwing  and  card-playing  going  on  around 
the  great  fire  in  the  plaza. 

When  the  pipe  went  out  after  its  second  filling, 
he  got  up  and  strolled  a  little  way  beyond  the  camp 
limits.  The  night  was  fine  and  mild  for  the  alti 
tudes,  and  he  had  walked  a  circling  mile  before  he 
found  himself  again  at  the  camp  confines.  It  was 
here,  at  the  back  of  the  mule  drove,  that  he  became 
once  more  an  onlooker;  this  time  a  thoroughly 
mystified  one. 

The  little  drama,  at  which  the  Forestry  expert 
154 


The  Law  and  the  Lady 

was  the  single  spectator,  was  chiefly  pantomimic, 
but  it  lacked  nothing  in  eloquent  action.  Flat 
upon  the  ground,  and  almost  among  the  legs  of 
the  grazing  mules,  lay  a  diminutive  figure,  face 
down,  digging  fingers  and  toes  into  the  hoof-cut 
earth,  and  sobbing  out  a  strange  jargon  of  oaths 
and  childish  ragings.  Before  Bigelow  could  speak, 
the  figure  rose  to  its  knees,  its  face  disfigured  with 
passion,  and  its  small  fists  clenching  themselves  at 
the  invisible.  It  was  Dick  Carson;  and  the  words 
which  Bigelow  heard  seemed  to  be  shaken  by  some 
unseen  force  out  of  the  thin,  stoop-shouldered 
little  body:  "Oh,  my  Lordy!  ef  it  could  on'y  be 
somebody  else!  But  ther'  ain't  nobody  else;  an' 
I'll  go  to  hell  if  I  don't  do  it!" 

Now,  at  all  events,  Bigelow  would  have  cut  in, 
but  the  action  of  the  drama  was  too  quick  for  him. 
Like  a  flash  the  water-boy  disappeared  among  the 
legs  of  the  grazing  animals;  and  a  few  minutes 
afterward  the  night  gave  back  the  sound  of  gallop 
ing  hoofs  racing  away  to  the  eastward. 

Bigelow  marked  the  direction  of  the  water-boy's 
flight.  Since  it  was  toward  the  valley  head  and 
Castle  'Cadia,  he  guessed  that  young  Carson's 
errand  concerned  itself  in  some  way  with  the 
sheriff's  raid  upon  the  Craigmiles  ranch  outfit. 
Here,  however,  conjecture  tripped  itself  and  fell 
down.  Both  parties  in  whatever  conflict  the 

155 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

sheriff's  visit  might  provoke  were  the  boy's  natural 
enemies. 

Bigelow  was  wrestling  with  this  fresh  bit  of 
mystery  when  he  went  to  find  his  bunk  in  the  com 
missary;  it  got  into  his  dreams  and  was  still 
present  when  the  early  morning  call  of  the  camp 
was  sounded.  But  neither  at  the  candle-lighted 
breakfast,  nor  later,  when  Ballard  asked  him  if  he 
were  fit  for  a  leisurely  ride  to  the  southern  water 
shed  for  the  day's  outwearing,  did  he  speak  of 
young  Carson's  desertion. 

Fitzpatrick  spoke  of  it,  though,  when  the  chief 
and  his  companion  were  mounting  for  the  water 
shed  ride. 

"You  brought  my  water-boy  back  with  you  last 
night,  didn't  you,  Mr.  Ballard  ?"  he  asked. 

"Certainly;  he  came  in  with  us.  Why?  Have 
you  lost  him  ?" 

"Him  and  one  of  the  saddle  broncos.  And  I 
don't  much  like  the  look  of  it." 

"Oh,  I  guess  he'll  turn  up  all  right,"  said  Bal 
lard  easily. 

It  was  Bigelow's  time  to  speak,  but  something 
restrained  him,  and  the  contractor's  inquiry  died 
a  natural  death  when  Ballard  gathered  the  reins 
and  pointed  the  way  to  the  southward  hills. 

By  nine  o'clock  the  two  riders  were  among  the 
foothills  of  the  southern  Elks,  and  the  chief  engi- 


The  Law  and  the  Lady 

neer  of  the  Arcadia  Company  was  making  a  very 
practical  use  of  his  guest.  Bigelow  was  an  au 
thority  on  watersheds,  stream-basins,  the  conserva 
tion  of  moisture  by  forested  slopes,  and  kindred 
subjects  of  vital  importance  to  the  construction 
chief  of  an  irrigation  scheme;  and  the  talk  held 
steadily  to  the  technical  problems,  with  the  For 
estry  expert  as  the  lecturer. 

Only  once  was  there  a  break  and  a  lapse  into 
the  humanities.  It  was  when  the  horses  had 
climbed  one  of  the  bald  hills  from  the  summit  of 
which  the  great  valley,  with  its  dottings  of  camps 
and  its  streaking  of  canal  gradings,  was  spread  out 
map-like  beneath  them.  On  the  distant  river 
road,  progressing  by  perspective  inches  toward  the 
lower  end  of  the  valley,  trotted  a  mixed  mob  of 
horsemen,  something  more  than  doubling  in  num 
bers  the  sheriff's  posse  that  had  ridden  over  the 
same  road  in  the  opposite  direction  the  previous 
evening. 

"Beckwith  with  his  game-bag?"  queried  Big 
elow,  gravely;  and  Ballard  said:  "I  guess  so,"  and 
immediately  switched  the  talk  back  to  the  water 
shed  technicalities. 

It  was  within  an  hour  of  the  grading-camp 
supper-time  when  the  two  investigators  of  mois 
ture-beds  and  auxiliary  reservoirs  rode  into  Fitz- 
patrick's  headquarters  and  found  a  surprise 

157 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

awaiting  them.  The  Castle  'Cadia  runabout  was 
drawn  up  before  the  commissary;  and  young 
Blacklock,  in  cap  and  gloves  and  dust-coat,  was 
tinkering  with  the  motor. 

"  The  same  to  you,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  jo 
cosely,  when  he  took  his  head  out  of  the  bonnet. 
"I  was  just  getting  ready  to  go  and  chase  you 
some  more.  We've  been  waiting  a  solid  hour,  I 
should  say." 

"'We'?"  questioned  Ballard. 

"Yes;  Miss  Elsa  and  I.  We've  been  hunting 
you  in  every  place  a  set  of  rubber  tires  wouldn't 
balk  at,  all  afternoon.  Say;  you  don't  happen 
to  have  an  extra  spark-plug  about  your  clothes, 
either  of  you,  do  you  ?  One  of  these  is  cracked 
in  the  porcelain,  and  she  skips  like  a  dog  on  three 
legs." 

Ballard  ignored  the  motor  disability  completely. 

"You  brought  Miss  Craigmiles  here?  Where 
is  she  now?"  he  demanded. 

The  collegian  laughed. 

"She's  in  the  grand  salon,  and  Fitzpatrick  the 
gallant  is  making  her  a  cup  of  commissary  tea. 
Wouldn't  that  jar  you  ?" 

Ballard  swung  out  of  his  saddle  and  vanished 
through  the  open  door  of  the  commissary,  leaving 
Bigelow  and  the  motor-maniac  to  their  own  de 
vices.  In  the  littered  storeroom  he  found  Miss 


The  Law  and  the  Lady 

Craigmiles,  sitting  upon  a  coil  of  rope  and  calmly 
drinking  her  tea  from  a  new  tin  can. 

"At  last!"  she  sighed,  smiling  up  at  him;  and 
then:  "Mercy  me!"  how  savage  you  look!  We  are 
trespassers;  I  admit  it.  But  you'll  be  lenient 
with  us,  won't  you  ?  Jerry  says  there  is  a  broken 
spark-plug,  or  something;  but  I  am  sure  we  can 
move  on  if  we're  told  to.  You  have  come  to  tell 
us  to  move  on,  Mr.  Ballard  ?" 

His  frown  was  only  the  outward  and  visible  sign 
of  the  inward  attempt  to  grapple  with  the  possi 
bilities;  but  it  made  his  words  sound  something 
less  than  solicitous. 

"This  is  no  place  for  you,"  he  began;  but  she 
would  not  let  him  go  on. 

"  I  have  been  finding  it  quite  a  pleasant  place,  I 
assure  you.  Mr.  Fitzpatrick  is  an  Irish  gentle 
man.  No  one  could  have  been  kinder.  You've 
no  idea  of  the  horrible  things  he  promised  to  do 
to  the  cook  if  this  tea  wasn't  just  right." 

If  she  were  trying  to  make  him  smile,  she  suc 
ceeded.  Fitzpatrick's  picturesque  language  to  his 
men  was  the  one  spectacular  feature  of  the  head 
quarters  camp. 

"That  proves  what  I  said — that  this  is  no  place 
for  you,"  he  rejoined,  still  deprecating  the  camp 
crudities.  "And  you've  been  here  an  hour,  Black- 
lock  says." 

159 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

"An  hour  and  twelve  minutes,  to  be  exact,"  she 
admitted,  tilting  the  tiny  watch  pinned  upon  the 
lapel  of  her  driving-coat.  "But  you  left  us  no 
alternative.  We  have  driven  uncounted  miles  this 
afternoon,  looking  for  you  and  Mr.  Bigelow." 

Ballard  flushed  uncomfortably  under  the  tan 
and  sunburn.  Miss  Craigmiles  could  have  but  one 
object  in  seeking  him,  he  decided;  and  he  would 
have  given  worlds  to  be  able  to  set  the  business 
affair  and  the  sentimental  on  opposite  sides  of  an 
impassable  chasm.  Since  it  was  not  to  be,  he  said 
what  he  was  constrained  to  say  with  characteristic 
abruptness. 

"  It  is  too  late.  The  matter  is  out  of  my  hands, 
now.  The  provocation  was  very  great;  and  in 
common  loyalty  to  my  employers  I  was  obliged  to 
strike  back.  Your  father- 
She  stopped  him  with  a  gesture  that  brought  the 
blood  to  his  face  again. 

"  I  know  there  has  been  provocation,"  she  quali 
fied.  "  But  it  has  not  been  all  on  one  side.  Your 
men  have  told  you  how  our  range-riders  have  an 
noyed  them:  probably  they  have  not  told  you  how 
they  have  given  blow  for  blow,  killing  cattle  on  the 
railroad,  supplying  themselves  with  fresh  meat 
from  our  herd,  filling  up  or  draining  the  water- 
holes.  And  two  days  ago,  at  this  very  camp.  ...  I 
don't  know  the  merits  of  the  case;  but  I  do  know 

1 60 


The  Law  and  the  Lady 

that  one  of  our  men  was  shot  through  the  shoulder, 
and  is  lying  critically  near  to  death." 

He  nodded  gloomily.  "That  was  bad,"  he  ad 
mitted,  adding:  "And  it  promptly  brought  on 
more  violence.  On  the  night  of  the  same  day 
your  cow-men  returned  and  dynamited  the  canal." 

Again  she  stopped  him  with  the  imperative  little 
gesture. 

"Did  you  see  them  do  it?" 

"Naturally,  no  one  saw  them  do  it.  But  it  was 
done,  nevertheless." 

She  rose  and  faced  him  fairly. 

"You  found  my  note  last  evening — when  you 
were  returning  with  Sheriff  Beckwith  ?" 

"  I  found  an  unsigned  note  on  a  little  barrier  of 
tree-branches  on  the  trail;  yes." 

"I  wrote  it  and  put  it  there,"  she  declared.  "I 
told  you  you  were  about  to  commit  an  act  of  in 
justice,  and  you  have  committed  it — a  very  great 
one,  indeed,  Mr.  Ballard." 

"  I  am  open  to  conviction,"  he  conceded,  almost 
morosely.  She  was  confronting  him  like  an  angry 
goddess,  and  mixed  up  with  the  thought  that  he 
had  never  seen  her  so  beautiful  and  so  altogether 
desirable  was  another  thought  that  he  should  like 
to  run  away  and  hide. 

"Yes;  you  are  open  to  conviction — after  the 
fact!"  she  retorted,  bitterly.  "Do  you  know 

161 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

what  you  have  done  ?  You  have  fallen  like  a  hot 
headed  boy  into  a  trap  set  for  you  by  my  father's 
enemies.  You  have  carefully  stripped  Arcadia  of 
every  man  who  could  defend  our  cattle — just  as  it 
was  planned  for  you  to  do." 

"But,  good  heavens!"  he  began,  "I " 

"Hear  me  out,"  she  commanded,  looking  more 
than  ever  the  princess  of  her  father's  kingdom. 
"Down  in  the  canyon  of  the  Boiling  Water  there 
is  a  band  of  outlaws  that  has  harried  this  valley 
for  years.  Assuming  that  you  would  do  precisely 
what  you  have  done,  some  of  these  men  came  up 
and  dynamited  your  canal,  timing  the  raid  to  fit 
your  inspection  tour.  Am  I  making  it  sufficiently 

1      *        3  " 

plain  r 

"O  my  sainted  ancestors!"  he  groaned.  And 
then:  "Please  go  on;  you  can't  make  it  any 
worse." 

"They  confidently  expected  that  you  would  pro 
cure  a  wholesale  arrest  of  the  Arcadia  ranch  force; 
but  they  did  not  expect  you  to  act  as  promptly  as 
you  did.  That  is  why  they  turned  and  fired  upon 
you  in  Dry  Valley  Gulch :  they  thought  they  were 
suspected  and  pursued,  not  by  you  or  any  of  your 
men,  but  by  our  cow-boys.  Your  appearance  at 
the  cabin  at  the  mouth  of  Deer  Creek  yesterday 
morning  explained  things,  and  they  let  you  go  on 
without  taking  vengeance  for  the  man  Mr.  Bigelow 

162 


The  Law  and  the  Lady 

had  shot  in  the  Dry  Valley  affray.  They  were 
willing  to  let  the  greater  matter  outweigh  the 
smaller." 

Ballard  said  "Good  heavens!'*  again,  and  leaned 
weakly  against  the  commissary  counter.  Then, 
suddenly,  it  came  over  him  like  a  cool  blast  of 
wind  on  a  hot  day  that  this  clear-eyed,  sweet- faced 
young  woman's  intimate  knowledge  of  the  laby 
rinthine  tangle  was  almost  superhuman  enough  to 
be  uncanny.  Would  the  nerve-shattering  mys 
teries  never  be  cleared  away  ? 

"You  know  all  this — as  only  an  eye-witness 
could  know,"  he  stammered.  "  How,  in  the  name 
of  all  that  is  wonderful — 

"We  are  not  without  friends — even  in  your 
camps,"  she  admitted.  "Word  came  to  Castle 
'Cadia  of  your  night  ride  and  its  purpose.  For 
the  later  details  there  was  little  Dick.  My  father 
once  had  his  father  sent  to  the  penitentiary  for 
cattle-stealing.  In  pity  for  the  boy,  I  persuaded 
some  of  our  Denver  friends  to  start  a  petition  for  a 
pardon.  Dick  has  not  forgotten  it;  and  last  night 
he  rode  to  Castle  'Cadia  to  tell  me  what  I  have 
told  you — the  poor  little  lad  being  more  loyal  to 
me  than  he  is  to  his  irreclaimable  wretch  of  a 
father.  Also,  he  told  me  another  thing:  to-night, 
while  the  range  cattle  are  entirely  unguarded,  there 
will  be  another  raid  from  Deer  Creek.  I  thought 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

you  might  like  to  know  how  hard  a  blow  you  have 
struck  us,  this  time.  That  is  why  I  have  made 
Jerry  drive  me  a  hundred  miles  or  so  up  and  down 
the  valley  this  afternoon." 

The  situation  was  well  beyond  speech,  any  ex 
culpatory  speech  of  Ballard's,  but  there  was  still  an 
opportunity  for  deeds.  Going  to  the  door  he  called 
to  Bigelow,  and  when  the  Forestry  man  came  in, 
his  part  in  what  was  to  be  done  was  assigned 
abruptly. 

"Mr.  Bigelow,  you  can  handle  the  runabout 
with  one  good  arm,  I'm  sure:  drive  Miss  Craig- 
miles  home,  if  you  please,  and  let  me  have  Black- 
lock." 

"Certainly,  if  Miss  Elsa  is  willing  to  exchange 
a  good  chauffeur  for  a  poor  one,"  was  the  good- 
natured  reply.  And  then  to  his  hostess:  "Are 
you  willing,  Miss  Craigmiles  ?" 

"Mr.  Ballard  is  the  present  tyrant  of  Arcadia. 
If  he  shows  us  the  door 

Bigelow  was  already  at  the  car  step,  waiting  to 
help  her  in.  There  was  time  only  for  a  single  sen 
tence  of  caution,  and  Ballard  got  it  in  a  swift  aside. 

"Don't  be  rash  again,"  she  warned  him.  "You 
have  plenty  of  men  here.  If  Carson  can  be  made 
to  understand  that  you  will  not  let  him  take  ad 
vantage  of  the  plot  in  which  he  has  made  you  his 

innocent  accessory 

164 


The  Law  and  the  Lady 

"Set  your  mind  entirely  at  rest/*  he  cut  in,  with 
a  curtness  which  was  born  altogether  of  his  deter 
mination,  and  not  at  all  of  his  attitude  toward  the 
woman  he  loved.  "  There  will  be  no  cattle-lifting 
in  this  valley  to-night — or  at  any  other  time  until 
your  own  caretakers  have  returned." 

"Thank  you/'  she  said  simply;  and  a  minute 
later  Ballard  and  young  Blacklock  stood  aside  to 
let  Bigelow  remove  himself,  his  companion,  and 
the  smart  little  car  swiftly  from  the  scene. 

"Say,  Mr.  Ballard,  this  is  no  end  good  of  you — 
to  let  me  in  for  a  little  breather  of  sport,"  said  the 
collegian,  when  the  fast  runabout  was  fading  to  a 
dusty  blur  in  the  sunset  purplings.  "  Bigelow  gave 
me  a  hint;  said  there  was  a  scrap  of  some  sort  on. 
Make  me  your  side  partner,  and  I'll  do  you  proud." 

"You  are  all  right,"  laughed  Ballard,  with  a 
sudden  access  of  light-heartedness.  "  But  the  first 
thing  to  do  is  to  get  a  little  hay  out  of  the  rack. 
Come  in  and  let  us  see  what  you  can  make  of  a 
camp  supper.  Fitzpatrick  bets  high  on  his  cook — 
which  is  more  than  I'd  do  if  he  were  mine." 


XIV 
THE  MAXIM 

BALLARD  and  Blacklock  ate  supper  at  the 
contractor's  table  in  the  commissary,  and  the 
talk,  what  there  was  of  it,  left  the  Kentuckian  aside. 
The  Arcadian  summering  was  the  young  collegian's 
first  plunge  into  the  manful  realities,  and  it  was  not 
often  that  he  came  upon  so  much  raw  material  in 
the  lump  as  the  contractor's  camp,  and  more  es 
pecially  the  jovial  Irish  contractor  himself,  afforded. 
Ballard  was  silent  for  cause.  Out  of  the  depths 
of  humiliation  for  the  part  he  had  been  made  to 
play  in  the  plan  for  robbing  Colonel  Craigmiles  he 
had  promised  unhesitatingly  to  prevent  the  rob 
bery.  But  the  means  for  preventing  it  were  not 
so  obvious  as  they  might  have  been.  Force  was 
the  only  argument  which  would  appeal  to  the  cat 
tle-lifters,  and  assuredly  there  were  men  enough  and 
arms  enough  in  the  Fitzpatrick  camps  to  hold  up 
any  possible  number  of  rustlers  that  Carson  could 
bring  into  the  valley.  But  would  the  contractor's 
men  consent  to  fight  the  colonel's  battle  ? 

1 66 


The  Maxim 

This  was  the  crucial  query  which  only  Fitz- 
patrick  could  answer;  and  at  the  close  of  the  meal, 
Ballard  made  haste  to  have  private  speech  with 
the  contractor  in  the  closet-like  pay  office. 

"You  see  what  we  are  up  against,  Bourke,"  he 
summed  up  when  he  had  explained  the  true  in 
wardness  of  the  situation  to  the  Irishman.  "Bare 
justice,  the  justice  that  even  an  enemy  has  a  right 
to  expect,  shoves  us  into  the  breach.  We've  got 
to  stop  this  raid  on  the  Craigmiles  cattle." 

Fitzpatrick  was  shaking  his  head  dubiously. 

"Sure,  now;  I'm  with  you,  Mr.  Ballard,"  he 
allowed,  righting  himself  with  an  effort  that  was  a 
fine  triumph  over  personal  prejudice.  "  But  it's 
only  fair  to  warn  you  that  not  a  man  in  any  of  the 
ditch  camps  will  lift  a  finger  in  any  fight  to  save 
the  colonel's  property.  This  shindy  with  the  cow 
boys  has  gone  on  too  long,  and  it  has  been  too 
bitter." 

"  But  this  time  they've  got  it  to  do,"  Ballard  in 
sisted  warmly.  "They  are  your  men,  under  your 
orders." 

"Under  my  orders  to  throw  dirt,  maybe;  but 
not  to  shoulder  the  guns  and  do  the  tin-soldier  act. 
There's  plinty  of  men,  as  you  say;  Polacks  and 
Hungarians  and  Eyetalians  and  Irish — and  the 
Irish  are  the  only  ones  you  could  count  on  in  a 
hooraw,  boys!  I  know  every  man  of  them,  Mr. 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

Ballard,  and,  not  to  be  mincin'  the  wor-rd,  they'd 
see  you — or  me,  either — in  the  hot  place  before 
they'd  point  a  gun  at  annybody  who  was  giving  the 
Craigmiles  outfit  a  little  taste  of  its  own  medicine." 

Fitzpatrick's  positive  assurance  was  discourag 
ing,  but  Ballard  would  not  give  up. 

"How  many  men  do  you  suppose  Carson  can 
muster  for  this  cattle  round-up?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know;  eighteen  or  twenty  at  the 
outside,  maybe." 

"  You've  got  two  hundred  and  forty-odd  here  and 
at  Riley's;  in  all  that  number  don't  you  suppose 
you  could  find  a  dozen  or  two  who  would  stand  by 
us?" 

"Honestly,  then,  I  don't,  Mr.  Ballard.  I'm 
not  lukewarm,  as  ye  might  think:  I'll  stand  with 
you  while  I  can  squint  an  eye  to  sight  th'  gun. 
But  the  minute  you  tell  the  b'ys  what  you're  want- 
in'  them  to  do,  that  same  minute  they'll  give  you 
the  high-ball  signal  and  quit." 

"Strike  work,  you  mean?" 

"Just  that." 

Ballard  went  into  a  brown  study,  and  Fitzpat- 
rick  respected  it.  After  a  time  the  silence  was 
broken  by  the  faint  tapping  of  the  tiny  telegraph 
instrument  on  the  contractor's  desk.  Ballard's 
chair  righted  itself  with  a  crash. 

"The  wire,"  he  exclaimed;  "I  had  forgotten 
168 


The  Maxim 

that  you  had  brought  it  down  this  far  on  the  line. 
I  wonder  if  I  can  get  Bromley  ?" 

"  Sure  ye  can,"  said  the  contractor;  and  Ballard 
sat  at  the  desk  to  try. 

It  was  'during  the  preliminary  key-clickings  that 
Blacklock  came  to  the  door  of  the  pay  office. 
"There's  a  man  out  here  wanting  to  speak  to  you, 
Mr.  Fitzpatrick,"  he  announced;  and  the  con 
tractor  went  out,  returning  presently  to  break  into 
Ballard's  preoccupied  effort  to  raise  the  office  at 
Elbow  Canyon. 

"One  of  the  foremen  came  in  to  say  that 
the  Craigmiles  men  were  coming  back.  For 
the  last  half-hour  horsemen  by  twos  and  threes 
have  been  trailing  up  the  river  road  and  head 
ing  for  the  ranch  headquarters,"  was  the  inform 
ation  he  brought. 

"It's  Carson's  gang,"  said  Ballard,  at  once. 

"Yes;  but  I  didn't  give  it  away  to  the  foreman. 
Their  scheme  is  to  make  as  much  of  a  round-up 
as  they  can  while  it's  light  enough  to  see.  There'll 
be  a  small  piece  of  a  moon,  and  that'll  do  for  the 
drive  down  the  canyon.  Oh,  I'll  bet  you  they've 
got  it  all  figured  out  to  a  dot.  Carson's  plenty 
smooth  when  it  comes  to  plannin'  any  devilment." 

Ballard  turned  back  to  the  telegraph  key  and 
rattled  it  impatiently.  Time  was  growing  precious; 
was  already  temerariously  short  for  carrying  out 

169 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

the  programme  he  had  hastily  determined  upon 
in  the  few  minutes  of  brown  study. 

'That  you,Loudon  ?"  he  clicked,  when,  after  in 
terminable  tappings,  the  breaking  answer  came; 
and  upon  the  heels  of  the  snipped-out  affirmative 
he  cut  in  masterfully. 

"Ask  no  questions,  but  do  as  I  say,  quick.  You 
said  colonel  had  machine-gun  at  his  mine:  Rally 
gang  stone-buckies,  rush  that  gun,  and  capture  it. 
Can  you  do  it  ?" 

"  Yes,"  was  the  prompt  reply,  "if  you  don't  mind 
good  big  bill  funeral  expenses,  followed  by  labour 


riot." 


"We've  got  to  have  gun." 

:<The  colonel  would  lend  it  if — hold  wire  min 
ute,  Miss  Elsa  just  crossing  bridge  in  runabout. 
I'll  ask  her." 

Ballard's  sigh  of  relief  was  almost  a  groan,  and 
he  waited  with  good  hope.  Elsa  would  know  why 
he  wanted  the  Maxim,  and  if  the  thing  could  be 
done  without  an  express  order  from  her  father  to 
the  Mexican  mine  guards,  she  would  do  it.  After 
what  seemed  to  the  engineer  like  the  longest  fifteen 
minutes  he  had  ever  endured,  the  tapping  began 
again. 

"Gun  here,"  from  Bromley.  "What  shall  I 
do  with  it  ?" 

The  answer  went  back  shot-like:   "Load  on  en- 

170 


The  Maxim 

gine  and  get  it  down  to  end  of  branch  nearest  this 
camp  quick." 

"Want  me  to  come  with  it  ?" 

"No;  stay  where  you  are,  and  you  may  be  next 
Arcadian  chief  construction.  Hurry  gun." 

Fitzpatrick  was  his  own  telegrapher,  and  as  he 
read  what  passed  through  key  and  sounder  his 
smile  was  like  that  which  goes  with  the  prize 
fighter's  preliminary  hand-shaking. 

"Carson'll  need  persuading,"  he  commented. 
"  'Tis  well  ye've  got  the  artillery  moving.  What's 
next?" 

'The  next  thing  is  to  get  out  the  best  team 
you  have,  the  one  that  will  make  the  best  time, 
and  send  it  to  the  end  of  track  to  meet  Brom 
ley's  special.  How  far  is  it — six  miles,  or  there 
abouts  ?" 

"Seven,  or  maybe  a  little  worse.  I'll  go  with 
the  team  myself,  and  push  on  the  reins.  Do  I 
bring  the  gun  here  ?" 

Ballard  thought  a  moment.  "No;  since  we're 
to  handle  this  thing  by  ourselves,  there  is  no  need 
of  making  talk  in  the  camps.  Do  you  know  a 
little  sand  creek  in  the  hogback  called  Dry  Valley  ?" 

"Sure,  I  do." 

"Good.  Make  a  straight  line  for  the  head  of 
that  arroyo,  and  we'll  meet  you  there,  Blacklock 
and  I,  with  an  extra  saddle-horse." 

171 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

Fitzpatrick  was  getting  a  duck  driving-coat  out 
of  a  locker. 

"What's  your  notion,  Mr.  Ballard  ? — if  a  man 
might  be  asking?" 

"Wait,  and  you'll  see,"  was  the  crisp  reply. 
"It  will  work;  you'll  see  it  work  like  a  charm, 
Bourke.  But  you  must  burn  the  miles  with  that 
team  of  broncos.  We'll  be  down  and  out  if  you 
don't  make  connections  with  the  Maxim.  And 
say;  toss  a  coil  of  that  quarter-inch  rope  into  your 
wagon  as  you  go.  We'll  need  that,  too." 

When  the  contractor  was  gone,  Ballard  called 
the  collegian  into  the  pay  office  and  put  him  in 
touch  with  the  pressing  facts.  A  raid  was  to  be 
made  on  Colonel  Craigmiles's  cattle  by  a  band  of 
cattle  thieves;  the  raid  was  to  be  prevented;  means 
to  the  preventing  end — three  men  and  a  Maxim 
automatic  rapid-fire  gun.  Would  Blacklock  be 
one  of  the  three  ? 

"Would  a  hungry  little  dog  eat  his  supper,  Mr. 
Ballard?  By  Jove!  but  you're  a  good  angel  in 
disguise — to  let  me  in  for  the  fun!  And  youVe 
pressed  the  right  button,  too,  by  George !  There's 
a  Maxim  in  the  military  kit  at  college,  and  I  can 
work  her  to  the  queen's  taste." 

"Then  you  may  consider  yourself  chief  of  the 
artillery,"  was  the  prompt  rejoinder.  "I  suppose 
I  don't  need  to  ask  if  you  can  ride  a  range  pony  ?" 

172 


The  Maxim 

Blacklock's  laugh  was  an  excited  chuckle. 

"Now  you're   shouting.     What   I   don't   know 
about  cow-ponies  would  make  the  biggest  book 
you  ever  saw.     But  I'd  ride  a  striped  zebra  rather 
than  be  left  out  of  this.     Do  we  hike  out  now  ?— 
right  away  ?" 

" There  is  no  rush;  you  can  smoke  a  pipe  or 
two — as  I'm  going  to.  Fitzpatrick  has  to  drive 
fourteen  miles  to  work  off  his  handicap." 

Ballard  filled  his  pipe  and  lighting  it  sat  down 
to  let  the  mental  polishing  wheels  grind  upon  the 
details  of  his  plan.  Blacklock  tried  hard  to  as 
sume  the  manly  attitude  of  nonchalance;  tried  and 
failed  utterly.  Once  for  every  five  minutes  of 
the  waiting  he  had  to  jump  up  and  make  a  trip  to 
the  front  of  the  commissary  to  ease  off  the  excess 
pressure;  and  at  the  eleventh  return  Ballard  was 
knocking  the  ash  out  of  his  pipe. 

"Getting  on  your  nerves,  Jerry?"  he  asked. 
"All  right:  we'll  go  and  bore  a  couple  of  holes 
into  the  night,  if  that's  what  you're  anxious  to  be 
doing." 

The  start  was  made  without  advertisement. 
Fitzpatrick's  horse-keeper  was  smoking  cigarettes 
on  the  little  porch  platform,  and  at  a  word  from 
Ballard  he  disappeared  in  the  direction  of  the 
horse-rope.  Giving  him  the  necessary  saddling 
time,  the  two  made  their  way  around  the  card- 

173 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

playing  groups  at  the  plaza  fire,  and  at  the  back  of 
the  darkened  mess-tent  found  the  man  waiting 
with  three  saddled  broncos,  all  with  rifle  holsters 
under  the  stirrup  leathers.  Ballard  asked  a  single 
question  at  the  mounting  moment. 

"You  haven't  seen  young  Carson  in  the  last 
hour  or  so,  have  you,  Patsy?" 

"Niver  a  hair  av  him:  'tis  all  day  long  he's  been 
gone,  wid  Misther  Bourke  swearing  thremenjous 
about  the  cayuse  he  took." 

Ballard  took  the  bridle  of  the  led  horse  and  the 
ride  down  the  line  of  the  canal,  with  Fitzpatrick's 
"piece  of  a  moon"  to  silver  the  darkness,  was  be 
gun  as  a  part  of  the  day's  work  by  the  engineer, 
but  with  some  little  trepidation  by  the  young 
collegian,  whose  saddle-strivings  hitherto  had  been 
confined  to  the  well-behaved  cobs  in  his  father's 
stables. 

At  the  end  of  the  first  mile  Blacklock  found  him 
self  growing  painfully  conscious  of  every  start  of 
the  wiry  little  steed  between  his  knees,  and  was 
fain  to  seek  comfort. 

"Say,  Mr.  Ballard;  what  do  you  do  when  a 
horse  bucks  under  you?"  he  asked,  wedging  the 
inquiry  between  the  jolts  of  the  racking  gallop. 

"You  don't  do  anything,"  replied  Ballard,  tak 
ing  the  pronoun  in  the  generic  sense.  "The 
bronco  usually  does  it  all," 

174 


The  Maxim 

"I — believe  this  brute's — getting  ready  to — 
buck,"  gasped  the  tyro.  "He's  working — my 
knee-holds  loose — with  his  confounded  sh — shoul 
der-blades." 

"Freeze  to  him,"  laughed  Ballard.  Then  he 
added  the  word  of  heartening:  "He  can't  buck 
while  you  keep  him  on  the  run.  Here's  a  smooth 
bit  of  prairie:  let  him  out  a  few  notches." 

That  was  the  beginning  of  a  mad  race  that 
swept  them  down  the  canal  line,  past  Riley's  camp 
and  out  to  the  sand-floored  cleft  in  the  foothills  far 
ahead  of  the  planned  meeting  with  Fitzpatrick. 
But  this  time  the  waiting  interval  was  not  wasted. 
Picketing  the  three  horses,  and  arming  themselves 
with  a  pair  of  the  short-barrelled  rifles,  the  advance 
guard  of  two  made  a  careful  study  of  the  ground, 
pushing  the  reconnaissance  down  to  the  mouth  of 
the  dry  valley,  and  a  little  way  along  the  main 
river  trail  in  both  directions. 

"Right  here,"  said  Ballard,  indicating  a  point 
on  the  river  trail  just  below  the  intersecting  valley 
mouth,  "is  where  you  will  be  posted  with  the 
Maxim.  If  you  take  this  boulder  for  a  shield,  you 
can  command  the  gulch  and  the  upper  trail  for  a 
hundred  yards  or  more,  and  still  be  out  of  range 
of  their  Winchesters.  They'll  probably  shoot  at 
you,  but  you  won't  mind  that,  with  six  or  eight 
feet  of  granite  for  a  breastwork,  will  you,  Jerry  ?" 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

"Well,  I  should  say  not!  Just  you  watch  me 
burn  'em  up  when  you  give  the  word,  Mr.  Ballard. 
I  believe  I  could  hold  a  hundred  of  'em  from  this 
rock." 

"That  is  exactly  what  I  want  you  to  do — to 
hold  them.  It  would  be  cold-blooded  murder 
to  turn  the  Maxim  loose  on  them  from  this  short 
range  unless  they  force  you  to  it.  Don't  forget 
that,  Jerry." 

"I  sha'n't,"  promised  the  collegian;  and  after 
some  further  study  of  the  topographies,  they  went 
back  to  the  horses. 

Thereupon  ensued  a  tedious  wait  of  an  hour  or 
more,  with  no  sight  or  sound  of  the  expected 
waggon,  and  with  anxiety  growing  like  a  juggler's 
rose  during  the  slowly  passing  minutes.  Anyone  of 
a  dozen  things  might  have  happened  to  delay  Fitz- 
patrick,  or  even  to  make  his  errand  a  fruitless  one. 
The  construction  track  was  rough,  and  the  hurry 
ing  engine  might  have  jumped  the  rails.  The 
rustlers  might  have  got  wind  of  the  gun  dash  and 
ditched  the  locomotive.  Failing  that,  some  of 
their  round-up  men  might  have  stumbled  upon 
the  contractor  and  halted  and  overpowered  him. 
Ballard  and  Blacklock  listened  anxiously  for  the 
drumming  of  wheels.  But  when  the  silence  was 
broken  it  was  not  by  waggon  noises;  the  sound  was 
in  the  air — a  distant  lowing  of  a  herd  in  motion, 


The  Maxim 

and  the  shuffling  murmur  of  many  hoofs.  The  in 
ference  was  plain. 

"By  Jove!  do  you  hear  that,  Jerry?"  Ballard 
demanded.  "The  beggars  are  coming  down- 
valley  with  the  cattle,  and  they're  ahead  of  Fitz- 
patrick!" 

That  was  not  strictly  true.  While  the  engineer 
was  adding  a  hasty  command  to  mount,  Fitz- 
patrick's  waggon  came  bouncing  up  the  dry  arroyo, 
with  the  snorting  team  in  a  lather  of  sweat. 

"Sharp  work,  Mr.  Ballard!"  gasped  the  dust- 
covered  driver.  "They're  less  than  a  mile  at  the 
back  of  me,  drivin'  a  good  half  of  the  colonel's 
beef  herd,  I'd  take  me  oath.  Say  the  wor-rds,  and 
say  thim  shwift!" 

With  the  scantest  possible  time  for  preparation, 
there  was  no  wasting  of  the  precious  minutes. 
Ballard  directed  a  quick  transference  of  men, 
horses,  and  gun  team  to  the  lower  end  of  the  inner 
valley,  a  planting  of  the  terrible  little  fighting 
machine  behind  the  sheltering  boulder  on  the 
main  trail,  and  a  hasty  concealment  of  the  waggon 
and  harness  animals  in  a  grove  of  the  scrub  pines. 
Then  he  outlined  his  plan  briskly  to  his  two 
subordinates. 

"They  will  send  the  herd  down  the  canyon 
trail,  probably  with  a  man  or  two  ahead  of  it  to 
keep  the  cattle  from  straying  up  this  draw,"  he 

177 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

predicted.  "The  first  move  is  to  nip  these  head 
riders;  after  which  we  must  turn  the  herd  and  let 
it  find  its  way  back  home  through  the  sand  gulch 
where  we  came  in.  Later  on 

A  rattling  clatter  of  horse-shoes  on  stone  rose 
above  the  muffled  lowing  and  milling  of  the  on 
coming  drove,  and  there  was  no  time  for  further 
explanations.  As  Ballard  and  his  companions 
drew  back  among  the  tree  shadows  in  the  small 
inner  valley,  a  single  horseman  galloped  down  the 
canyon  trail,  wheeling  abruptly  in  the  gulch  mouth 
to  head  off  the  cattle  if  they  should  try  to  turn 
back  by  way  of  the  hogback  valley.  Before  the 
echo  of  his  shrill  whistle  had  died  away  among  the 
canyon  crags,  three  men  rose  up  out  of  the  dark 
ness,  and  with  business-like  celerity  the  trail  guard 
was  jerked  from  his  saddle,  bound,  gagged,  and 
tossed  into  the  bed  of  an  empty  waggon. 

"Now  for  the  cut-out!"  shouted  Ballard;  and 
the  advance  stragglers  of  the  stolen  herd  were  al 
ready  in  the  mouth  of  the  little  valley  when  the 
three  amateur  line-riders  dashed  at  them  and 
strove  to  turn  the  drive  at  right  angles  up  the  dry 
gulch. 

For  a  sweating  minute  or  two  the  battle  with 
brute  bewilderment  hung  in  the  balance.  Wheel 
and  shout  and  flog  as  they  would,  they  seemed  able 
only  to  mass  the  bellowing  drove  in  the  narrow 


The  Maxim 

mouth  of  the  turn-out.  But  at  the  critical  in 
stant,  when  the  milling  tangle  threatened  to  be 
come  a  jam  that  must  crowd  itself  from  the  trail 
into  the  near-by  torrent  of  the  Boiling  Water,  a 
few  of  the  leaders  found  the  open  way  to  freedom 
up  the  hogback  valley,  and  in  another  throat- 
parching  minute  there  was  only  a  cloud  of  dust 
hanging  between  the  gulch  heads  to  show  where 
the  battle  had  been  raging. 

This  was  the  situation  a  little  later  when  the 
main  body  of  the  rustlers,  ten  men  strong,  ambled 
unsuspectingly  into  the  valley-mouth  trap:  dust  in 
the  air,  a  withdrawing  thunder  of  hoof-beats,  and 
apparent  desertion  of  the  point  of  hazard.  Car 
son  was  the  first  to  grasp  the  meaning  of  the  dust 
cloud  and  the  vanishing  murmur  of  hoof-tramp- 
lings. 

"Hell!"  he  rasped.  "Billings  has  let  'em  cut 
back  up  the  gulch!  That's  on  you,  Buck  Cum 
min's:  I  told  you  ye'd  better  hike  along  'ith  Bill- 
ings." 

"You  always  was  one  o'  them  ' I-told-ye-so ' 
kind  of  liars,"  was  the  pessimistic  retort  of  the  man 
called  Cummings;  and  Carson's  right  hand  was 
flicking  toward  the  ready  pistol  butt  when  a  voice 
out  of  the  shadows  under  the  western  cliff  shaped 
a  command  clear-cut  and  incisive. 

"Hands  up  out  there — every  man  of  you!" 
179 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

Then,  by  way  of  charitable  explanation:  "You're 
covered — with  a  rapid-fire  Maxim." 

There  were  doubters  among  the  ten;  desperate 
men  whose  lawless  days  and  nights  were  filled  with 
hair's-breadth  chance-takings.  From  these  came 
a  scattering  volley  of  pistol  shots  spitting  viciously 
at  the  cliff  shadows. 

"Show  'em,  Jerry,"  said  the  voice,  curtly;  and 
from  the  shelter  of  a  great  boulder  at  the  side  of 
the  main  trail  leaped  a  sheet  of  flame  with  a  roar 
comparable  to  nothing  on  earth  save  its  ear-split 
ting,  nerve-shattering  self.  Blacklock  had  swept 
the  machine-gun  in  a  short  arc  over  the  heads  of 
the  cattle  thieves,  and  from  the  cliff  face  and 
ledges  above  them  a  dropping  rain  of  clipped 
pine  branches  and  splintered  rock  chippings  fell 
upon  the  trapped  ten. 

It  is  the  new  and  untried  that  terrifies.  In  the 
group  of  rustlers  there  were  men  who  would  have 
wheeled  horse  and  run  a  gauntlet  of  spitting  Win 
chesters  without  a  moment's  hesitation.  But  this 
hidden  murder-machine  belching  whole  regiment 
volleys  out  of  the  shadows.  ..."  Sojers,  by 
cripes!"  muttered  Carson,  under  his  breath.  Then 
aloud:  "All  right,  Cap'n;  what  you  say  goes  as 
it  lays." 

"I  said  'hands  up/  and  I  meant  it,"  rasped 
Ballard;  and  when  the  pale  moonlight  pricked  out 

1 80 


The  Maxim 

the  cattle-lifters  in  the  attitude  of  submission: 
"First  man  on  the  right — knee  your  horse  into 
the  clump  of  trees  straight  ahead  of  you." 

It  was  Fitzpatrick,  working  swiftly  and  alone, 
who  disarmed,  wrist-roped,  and  heel-tied  to  his 
horse  each  of  the  crestfallen  ones  as  Ballard 
ordered  them  singly  into  the  mysterious  shad 
ows  of  the  pine  grove.  Six  of  the  ten,  including 
Carson,  had  been  ground  through  the  neutralis 
ing  process,  and  the  contractor  was  deftly  at 
work  on  the  seventh,  before  the  magnitude  of 
the  engineer's  strategy  began  to  dawn  upon 
them. 

"  Suffer  in  Jehu!  "  said  Carson,  with  an  entire 
world  of  disgust  and  humiliation  crowded  into  the 
single  expletive;  but  when  the  man  called  Cum- 
mings  broke  out  in  a  string  of  meaningless  oaths, 
the  leader  of  the  cattle  thieves  laughed  like  a  good 
loser. 

"Say;  how  many  of  you  did  it  take  to  run 
this  here  little  bluff  on  us?"  he  queried,  toss 
ing  the  question  to  Fitzpatrick,  the  only  captor 
in  sight. 

"  You'll  find  out,  when  the  time  comes,"  replied 
the  Irishman  gruffly.  "And  betwixt  and  between, 
ye'll  be  keeping  a  still  tongue  in  your  head. 
D'ye  see?" 

They  did  see,  when  the  last  man  was  securely 
181 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

bound  and  roped  to  his  saddle  beast;  and  it  was 
characteristic  of  time,  place,  and  the  actors  in  the 
drama  that  few  words  were  wasted  in  the  sum 
ming  up. 

"Line  them  up  for  the  back  trail,"  was  Bal- 
lard's  crisp  command,  when^Fitzpatrick  and  Black- 
lock  had  dragged  the  Maxim  in  from  its  boulder 
redoubt  and  had  loaded  it  into  the  waggon  beside 
the  rope-wound  Billings. 

"Whereabouts  does  this  here  back  trail  end  up 
—for  us  easy-marks,  Cap'n  Ballard?"  It  was 
Carson  who  wanted  to  know. 

"  That's  for  a  jury  to  say,"  was  the  brief 
reply. 

"You've  et  my  bread  and  stabled  yo*  hawss 
in  my  corral,"  the  chief  rustler  went  on  gloom 
ily.  "But  that's  all  right — if  you  feel  called 
to  take  up  for  ol'  King  Adam,  that's  fightin* 
ever'  last  shovelful  o'  mud  you  turn  over  in 
th'  big  valley." 

Fitzpatrick  was  leading  the  way  up  the  hoof- 
trampled  bed  of  the  dry  valley  with  the  waggon 
team,  and  Blacklock  was  marshalling  the  line  of 
prisoners  to  follow  in  single  file  when  Ballard 
wheeled  his  bronco  to  mount. 

"I  fight  my  own  battles,  Carson,"  he  said, 
quietly.  "You  set  a  deadfall  for  me,  and  I  tum 
bled  in  like  a  tenderfoot.  That  put  it  up  to  me  to 

182 


The  Maxim 

knock  out  your  raid.  Incidentally,  you  and  your 
gang  will  get  what  is  coming  to  you  for  blowing  a 
few  thousand  yards  of  earth  into  our  canal.  That's 
all.  Line  up  there  with  the  others;  you've  shot 
your  string  and  lost." 

The  return  route  led  the  straggling  cavalcade 
through  the  arroyo  mouth,  and  among  the  low 
hills  back  of  Riley's  camp  to  a  junction  with  the 
canal  line  grade  half  way  to  Fitzpatrick's  head 
quarters.  Approaching  the  big  camp,  Ballard  held 
a  conference  with  the  contractor,  as  a  result  of 
which  the  waggon  mules  were  headed  to  the  left  in 
a  semicircular  detour  around  the  sleeping  camp, 
the  string  of  prisoners  following  as  the  knotted 
trail  ropes  steered  it. 

Another  hour  of  easting  saw  the  crescent  moon 
poising  over  the  black  sky-line  of  the  Elks,  and  it 
brought  captors  and  captured  to  the  end  of  track 
of  the  railroad  where  there  was  a  siding,  with  a 
half-dozen  empty  material  cars  and  Bromley's  ar 
tillery  special,  the  engine  hissing  softly  and  the 
men  asleep  on  the  cab  cushions. 

Ballard  cut  his  prisoners  foot-free,  dismounted 
them,  and  locked  them  into  an  empty  box-car. 
This  done,  the  engine  crew  was  aroused,  the  Maxim 
was  reloaded  upon  the  tender,  and  the  chief  gave 
the  trainmen  their  instructions. 

"Take  the  gun,  and  that  locked  box-car,  back 

183 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

to  Elbow  Canyon,"  he  directed.  "Mr.  Bromley 
will  give  you  orders  from  there." 

"Carload  o'  bosses?"  said  the  engineman,  no 
ting  the  position  of  the  box-car  opposite  a  tem 
porary  chute  built  for  debarking  a  consignment  of 
Fitzpatrick's  scraper  teams. 

"No;  jackasses,"  was  Ballard's  correction; 
and  when  the  engine  was  clattering  away  to  the 
eastward  with  its  one-car  train,  the  waggon  was 
headed  westward,  with  Blacklock  sharing  the 
seat  beside  Fitzpatrick,  Ballard  lying  full-length 
on  his  back  in  the  deep  box-bed,  and  the  long 
string  of  saddle  animals  towing  from  the  tail 
board. 

At  the  headquarters  commissary  Blacklock  tum 
bled  into  the  handiest  bunk  and  was  asleep  when 
he  did  it.  But  Ballard  roused  himself  sufficiently 
to  send  a  message  over  the  wire  to  Bromley  direct 
ing  the  disposal  of  the  captured  cattle  thieves,  who 
were  to  be  transported  by  way  of  Alta  Vista  and 
the  D.  &  U.  P.  to  the  county  seat. 

After  that  he  remembered  nothing  until  he 
awoke  to  blink  at  the  sun  shining  into  the  little 
bunk  room  at  the  back  of  the  pay  office;  awoke 
with  a  start  to  find  Fitzpatrick  handing  him 
a  telegram  scrawled  upon  a  bit  of  wrapping- 
paper. 

"I'm  just  this  minut'  taking  this  off  the  wire," 
184 


The  Maxim 

said    the    contractor,    grinning    sheepishly;     and 
Ballard  read  the  scrawl: 

"D.  &  U.  P.  box-car  No.  3546  here  all  O.  K.  with  both 
side  doors  carefully  locked  and  end  door  wide  open. 
Nothing  inside  but  a  few  bits  of  rope  and  a  stale  smell 
of  tobacco  smoke  and  corn  whiskey. 

"BROMLEY." 


185 


XV 
HOSPES  ET  HOSTIS 

IT  was  two  days  after  the  double  fiasco  of  the 
cattle  raid  before  Ballard  returned  to  his  own 
headquarters  at  Elbow  Canyon;  but  Bromley's 
laugh  on  his  friend  and  chief  was  only  biding  its 
time. 

"  What  you  didn't  do  to  Carson  and  his  gang  was 
good  and  plenty,  wasn't  it,  Breckenridge  ?"  was 
his  grinning  comment,  when  they  had  been  over 
the  interval  work  on  the  dam  together,  and  were 
smoking  an  afternoon  peace  pipe  on  the  porch  of 
the  adobe  office.  "It's  the  joke  of  the  camp.  I 
tried  to  keep  it  dark,  but  the  enginemen  bleated 
about  it  like  a  pair  of  sheep,  of  course." 

"Assume  that  I  have  some  glimmerings  of  a 
sense  of  humour,  and  let  it  go  at  that,"  growled 
Ballard;  adding;  "I'm  glad  the  hoodoo  has  let 
up  on  you  long  enough  to  give  this  outfit  a 
chance  to  be  amused — even  at  a  poor  joke  on 


me." 


"It  has,"  said  Bromley.     "We  haven't  had  a 
1 86 


Hospes  et  Hostis 

shock  or  a  shudder  since  you  went  down-valley. 
And  I've  been  wondering  why." 

" Forget  it,"  suggested  the  chief,  shortly.  "Call 
it  safely  dead  and  buried,  and  don't  dig  it  up  again* 
We  have  grief  enough  without  it." 

Bromley  grinned  again. 

"Meaning  that  this  cow-boy  cattle-thief  tangle 
in  the  lower  valley  has  made  you  persona  non 
grata  at  Castle  'Cadia  ?  You're  off;  'way  off. 
You  don't  know  Colonel  Adam.  So  far  from  hold 
ing  malice,  he  has  been  down  here  twice  to  thank 
you  for  stopping  the  Carson  raid.  And  that  re 
minds  me:  there's  a  Castle  'Cadia  note  in  your 
mail-box — came  down  by  the  hands  of  one  of 
the  little  Japs  this  afternoon."  And  he  went  in  to 
get  it. 

It  proved  to  be  another  dinner  bidding  for  the 
chief  engineer,  to  be  accepted  informally  when 
ever  he  had  time  to  spare.  It  was  written  and 
signed  by  the  daughter,  but  she  said  that  she  spoke 
both  for  her  father  and  herself  when  she  urged  him 
to  come  soon. 

" You'll  go?"  queried  Bromley,  when  Ballard 
had  passed  the  faintly  perfumed  bit  of  note-paper 
across  the  arm's -reach  between  the  two  lazy- 
chairs. 

"You  know  I'll  go,"  was  the  half  morose  an 
swer. 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

Bromley's  smile  was  perfunctory. 

"Of  course  you  will,"  he  assented.  "To 
night?" 

"As  well  one  time  as  another.  Won't  you  go 
along?" 

"Miss  Elsa's  invitation  does  not  include  me," 
was  the  gentle  reminder. 

"Bosh!  You've  had  the  open  door,  first,  last, 
and  all  the  time,  haven't  you  ?" 

"Of  course.  I  was  only  joking.  But  it  isn't 
good  for  both  of  us  to  be  off  the  job  at  the  same 
time.  I'll  stay  and  keep  on  intimidating  the 
hoodoo." 

There  was  a  material  train  coming  in  from  Alta 
Vista,  and  when  its  long-drawn  chime  woke  the 
canyon  echoes,  they  both  left  the  mesa  and  went 
down  to  the  railroad  yard.  It  was  an  hour  later, 
and  Ballard  was  changing  his  clothes  in  his  bunk- 
room  when  he  called  to  Bromley,  who  was  check 
ing  the  way-bills  for  the  lately  arrived  material. 

"Oh,  I  say,  Loudon;  has  that  canyon  path  been 
dug  out  again  ? — where  the  slide  was  ?" 

"Sure,"  said  Bromley,  without  looking  up. 
Then:  "You're  going  to  walk  ?" 

"How  else  would  I  get  there?"  returned  Bal 
lard,  who  still  seemed  to  be  labouring  with  his 
handicap  of  moroseness. 

The  assistant  did  not  reply,  but  a  warm  flush 
188 


Hospes  et  Hostis 

crept  up  under  the  sunburn  as  he  went  on  checking 
the  way-bills.  Later,  when  Ballard  swung  out  to 
go  to  the  Craigmiles's,  the  man  at  the  desk  let  him 
pass  with  a  brief  "  So-long,"  and  bent  still  lower 
over  his  work. 

Under  much  less  embarrassing  conditions,  Bal 
lard  would  have  been  prepared  to  find  himself 
breathing  an  atmosphere  of  constraint  when  he 
joined  the  Castle  'Cadia  house-party  on  the  great 
tree-pillared  portico  of  the  Craigmiles  mansion. 
But  the  embarrassment,  if  any  there  were,  was  all 
his  own.  The  colonel  was  warmly  hospitable; 
under  her  outward  presentment  of  cheerful  mock 
ery,  Elsa  was  palpably  glad  to  see  him;  Miss 
Cauffrey  was  gently  reproachful  because  he  had 
not  let  them  send  Otto  and  the  car  to  drive  him 
around  from  the  canyon;  and  the  various  guests 
welcomed  him  each  after  his  or  her  kind. 

During  the  ante-dinner  pause  the  talk  was  all 
of  the  engineer's  prompt  snuffing-out  of  the  cattle 
raid,  and  the  praiseful  comment  on  the  little  coup 
de  main  was  not  marred  by  any  reference  to  the 
mistaken  zeal  which  had  made  the  raid  possible. 
More  than  once  Ballard  found  himself  wondering 
if  the  colonel  and  Elsa,  Bigelow  and  Blacklock, 
had  conspired  generously  to  keep  the  story  of  his 
egregious  blunder  from  reaching  the  others.  If 
they  had  not,  there  was  a  deal  more  charity  in 

189 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

human  nature  than  the  most  cheerful  optimist  ever 
postulated,  he  concluded. 

At  the  dinner-table  the  enthusiastic  rapport  was 
evenly  sustained.  Ballard  took  in  the  elder  of  the 
Cantrell  sisters;  and  Wingfield,  who  sat  opposite, 
quite  neglected  Miss  Van  Bryck  in  his  efforts  to 
make  an  inquisitive  third  when  Miss  Cantrell  in 
sistently  returned  to  the  exciting  topic  of  the  Car 
son  capture — which  she  did  after  each  separate 
endeavour  on  Ballard's  part  to  escape  the  en 
thusiasm. 

"Your  joking  about  it  doesn't  make  it  any 
less  heroic,  Mr.  Ballard,"  was  one  of  Miss  Can- 
trell's  phrasings  of  the  song  of  triumph.  "Just 
think  of  it — three  of  you  against  eleven  desperate 
outlaws!" 

"  Three  of  us,  a  carefully  planned  ambush,  and 
a  Maxim  rapid-fire  machine-gun,"  corrected  Bal 
lard.  "  And  you  forget  that  I  let  them  all  get  away 
a  few  hours  later." 

"And  I — the  one  person  in  all  this  valleyful  of 
possible  witnesses  who  could  have  made  the  most 
of  it — /  wasn't  there  to  see,"  cut  in  Wingfield, 
gloomily.  "It  is  simply  catastrophic,  Mr.  Bal 
lard!" 

"Oh,  I  am  sure  you  could  imagine  a  much  more 
exciting  thing — for  a  play,"  laughed  the  engineer. 
"Indeed,  it's  your  imagination,  and  Miss  Can- 

190 


Hospes  et  Hostis 

trell's,  that  is  making  a  bit  of  the  day's  work  take 
on  the  dramatic  quality.  If  I  were  a  writing  per 
son  I  should  always  fight  shy  of  the  real  thing. 
It's  always  inadequate." 

"  Much  you  know  about  it,"  grumbled  the  play 
wright,  from  the  serene  and  lofty  heights  of  crafts 
man  superiority.  "And  that  reminds  me:  I've 
been  to  your  camp,  and  what  I  didn't  find  out 
about  that  hoodoo  of  yours — 

It  was  Miss  Elsa,  sitting  at  Wingfield's  right, 
who  broke  in  with  an  entirely,  irrelevant  remark 
about  a  Sudermann  play;  a  remark  demanding 
an  answer;  and  Ballard  took  his  cue  and  devoted 
himself  thereafter  exclusively  to  the  elder  Miss 
Cantrell.  The  menace  of  Wingfield's  literary 
curiosity  was  still  a  menace,  he  inferred;  and  he 
was  prepared  to  draw  its  teeth  when  the  time 
should  come. 

As  on  the  occasion  of  the  engineer's  former 
visit  to  Castle  'Cadia,  there  was  an  after-dinner  ad 
journment  to  the  big  portico,  where  the  Japanese 
butler  served  the  little  coffees,  and  the  house- 
party  fell  into  pairs  and  groups  in  the  hammocks 
and  lazy-chairs. 

Not  to  leave  a  manifest  duty  undone,  Ballard 
cornered  his  host  at  the  dispersal  and  made,  or 
tried  to  make,  honourable  amends  for  the  piece  of 
mistaken  zeal  which  had  led  to  the  attempted 

191 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

cattle-lifting.  But  in  the  midst  of  the  first  self- 
reproachful  phrase  the  colonel  cut  him  off  with 
genial  protests. 

"Not  anotheh  word,  my  dear  suh;  don't  men 
tion  it" — with  a  benedictory  wave  of  the  shapely 
hands.  "We  ratheh  enjoyed  it.  The  boys  had 
thei-uh  little  blow-out  at  the  county  seat;  and, 
thanks  to  youh  generous  intervention,  we  didn't 
lose  hoof,  hide  nor  ho'n  through  the  machinations 
of  ouh  common  enemy.  In  youh  place,  Mistuh 
Ballard,  I  should  probably  have  done  precisely 
the  same  thing — only  I'm  not  sure  I  should  have 
saved  the  old  cattleman's  property  afte'  the  fact. 
Try  one  of  these  conchas,  suh — unless  youh  prefer 
youh  pipe.  One  man  in  Havana  has  been  making 
them  for  me  for  the  past  ten  yeahs." 

Ballard  took  the  gold-banded  cigar  as  one  who, 
having  taken  a  man's  coat,  takes  his  cloak,  also. 
There  seemed  to  be  no  limit  to  the  colonel's  kind 
liness  and  chivalric  generosity;  and  more  than 
ever  he  doubted  the  old  cattle  king's  complicity, 
even  by  implication,  in  any  of  the  mysterious  fatali 
ties  which  had  fallen  upon  the  rank  and  file  of  the 
irrigation  company's  industrial  army. 

Strolling  out  under  the  electric  globes,  he  found 
that  his  colloquy  with  the  colonel  had  cost  him  a 
possible  chance  of  a  tete-h-tete  with  Elsa.  She  was 
swinging  gently  in  her  own  particular  corner  ham- 

192 


Hospes  et  Hostis 

mock;  but  this  time  it  was  Bigelow,  instead  of 
Wingfield,  who  was  holding  her  tiny  coffee  cup. 
It  was  after  Ballard  had  joined  the  group  of  which 
the  sweet-voiced  Aunt  June  was  the  centre,  that 
Miss  Craigmiles  said  to  her  coffee-holder: 

"I  am  taking  you  at  your  sister's  valuation  and 
trusting  you  very  fully,  Mr.  Bigelow.  You  are 
quite  sure  you  were  followed,  you  and  Mr.  Bal 
lard,  on  the  day  before  the  dynamiting  of  the 
canal?" 

"No;  I  merely  suspected  it.  I  wasn't  sure 
enough  to  warrant  me  in  calling  Ballard's  atten 
tion  to  the  single  horseman  who  seemed  to  be  keep 
ing  us  in  view.  But  in  the  light  of  later  events " 

"Yes;  I  know,"  she  interrupted  hastily.  "Were 
you  near  enough  to  identify  the  man  if — if  you 
should  see  him  again  ?" 

"Oh,  no.  Most  of  the  time  he  was  a  mere 
galloping  dot  in  the  distance.  Only  once — it  was 
when  Ballard  and  I  had  stopped  to  wrangle  over 
a  bit  of  deforesting  vandalism  on  the  part  of  the 
contractors — I  saw  him  fairly  as  he  drew  rein  on  a 
hilltop  in  our  rear." 

"  Describe  him  for  me,"  she  directed,  briefly. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  can't  do  that.  I  had  only  this  one 
near-by  glimpse  of  him,  you  know.  But  I  re 
marked  that  he  was  riding  a  large  horse,  like  one 
of  those  in  your  father's  stables;  that  he  sat  straight 

193 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

in  the  saddle;  and  that  he  was  wearing  some  kind 
of  a  skirted  coat  that  blew  out  behind  him  when 
he  wheeled  to  face  the  breeze." 

Miss  Craigmiles  sat  up  in  the  hammock  and 
pressed  her  fingers  upon  her  closed  eyes.  When 
she  spoke  again  after  the  lapse  of  a  long  minute, 
it  was  to  ask  Bigelow  to  retell  the  story  of  the  brief 
fight  in  the  darkness  at  the  sand  arroyo  on  the 
night  of  the  explosion. 

The  Forestry  man  went  over  the  happenings  of 
the  night,  and  of  the  day  following,  circumstan 
tially,  while  the  growing  moon  tilted  like  a  silver 
shallop  in  a  sea  of  ebony  toward  the  distant  Elks, 
and  the  groups  and  pairs  on  the  broad  portico  re 
arranged  themselves  choir-wise  to  sing  hymns  for 
which  one  of  the  Cantrell  sisters  went  to  the  piano 
beyond  the  open  windows  of  the  drawing-room  to 
play  the  accompaniments. 

When  the  not  too  harmonious  chorus  began  to 
drone  upon  the  windless  night  air,  Miss  Craigmiles 
came  out  of  her  fit  of  abstraction  and  thanked 
Bigelow  for  his  patience  with  her. 

"It  isn't  altogether  morbid  curiosity  on  my 
part,"  she  explained,  half  pathetically.  "Some 
day  I  may  be  able  to  tell  you  just  what  it  is — but 
not  to-night.  Now  you  may  go  and  rescue  Madge 
from  the  major,  who  has  been  '  H'm-ha-ing'  her 
to  extinction  for  the  last  half-hour.  And  if  you're 

194 


Hospes  et  Hostis 

brave  enough  you  may  tell  Mr.  Ballard  that  his 
bass  is  something  dreadful — or  send  him  here  and 
I'll  tell  him." 

The  open-eyed  little  ruse  worked  like  a  piece  of 
well-oiled  mechanism,  and  Ballard  broke  off  in 
the  middle  of  a  verse  to  go  and  drag  Bigelow's  de 
serted  chair  to  within  murmuring  distance  of  the 
hammock. 

"You  were  singing  frightfully  out  of  tune,"  she 
began,  in  mock  petulance.  "  Didn't  you  know  it  ? " 

"I  took  it  for  granted,"  he  admitted,  cheerfully. 
"  I  was  never  known  to  sing  any  other  way.  My 
musical  education  has  been  sadly  neglected." 

She  looked  up  with  the  alert  little  side  turn  of 
the  head  that  always  betokened  a  shifting  of  moods 
or  of  mind  scenery. 

"  Mr.  Bromley's  hasn't,"  she  averred.  "  He  sings 
well,  and  plays  the  violin  like  a  master.  Doesn't 
he  ever  play  for  you  ?" 

Ballard  recalled,  with  a  singular  and  quite  un 
accountable  pricking  of  impatience,  that  once  be 
fore,  when  the  conditions  were  curiously  similar, 
she  had  purposefully  turned  the  conversation  upon 
Bromley.  But  he  kept  the  impatience  out  of  his 
reply. 

"No;  as  a  matter  of  fact,  we  have  seen  very 
little  of  each  other  since  I  came  on  the  work." 

"He  is  a  dear  boy."  She  said  it  with  the -exact 
195 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

shade  of  impersonality  which  placed  Bromley  on 
the  footing  of  a  kinsman  of  the  blood;  but  Bal- 
lard's  handicap  was  still  distorting  his  point  of 
view. 

"I  am  glad  you  like  him,"  he  said;  his  tone  im 
plying  the  precise  opposite  of  the  words. 

"Are  you?  You  don't  say  it  very  enthusias 
tically." 

It  was  a  small  challenge,  and  he  lifted  it  almost 
roughly. 

"I  can't  be  enthusiastic  where  your  liking  for 
other  men  is  concerned." 

Her  smile  was  a  mere  face-lighting  of  mockery. 

"I  can't  imagine  Mr.  Bromley  saying  a  thing 
like  that.  What  was  it  you  told  me  once  about 
the  high  plane  of  men-friendships  ?  As  I  remem 
ber  it,  you  said  that  they  were  the  purest  passions 
the  world  has  ever  known.  And  you  wouldn't 
admit  that  women  could  breathe  the  rarefied  air 
of  that  high  altitude  at  all." 

'That  was  before  I  knew  all  the  possibilities; 
before  I  knew  what  it  means  to — 

"Don't  say  it,"  she  interrupted,  the  mocking 
mood  slipping  from  her  like  a  cast-off  garment. 

"I  shall  say  it,"  he  went  on  doggedly.  "Lou- 
don  is  nearer  to  me  than  any  other  man  I  ever 
knew.  But  I  honestly  believe  I  should  hate  him 
if — tell  me  that  it  isn't  so,  Elsa.  For  heaven's 

196 


Hospes  et  Hostis 

sake,  help  me  to  kill  out  this  new  madness  before 
it  makes  a  scoundrel  of  me!" 

What  she  would  have  said  he  was  not  to  know. 
Beyond  the  zone  of  light  bounded  by  the  shadows 
of  the  maples  on  the  lawn  there  were  sounds  as  of 
some  animal  crashing  its  way  through  the  shrub 
bery.  A  moment  later,  out  of  the  enclosing  walls 
of  the  night,  came  a  man,  running  and  gasping  for 
breath.  It  was  one  of  the  labourers  from  the 
camp  at  Elbow  Canyon,  and  he  made  for  the 
corner  of  the  portico  where  Miss  Craigmiles's 
hammock  was  swung. 

"Tis  Misther  Ballard  I'm  lukin'  for!"  he 
panted;  and  Ballard  answered  quickly  for  him 
self. 

"I'm  here,"  he  said.     "What's  wanted  ?" 

"It's  Misther  Bromley,  this  time,  sorr.  The 
wather  was  risin'  in  the  river,  and  he'd  been  up  to 
the  wing  dam  just  below  this  to  see  was  there  anny 
logs  or  annything  cloggin'  it.  On  the  way  up  or 
back,  we  don't  know  which,  he  did  be  stoomblin' 
from  the  trail  into  the  canyon;  and  the  dago,  Lu'gi, 
found  him."  The  man  was  mopping  his  face 
with  a  red  bandana,  and  his  hands  were  shaking 
as  if  he  had  an  ague  fit. 

"Is  he  badly  hurt?"  Ballard  had  put  himself 
quickly  between  the  hammock  and  the  bearer  of 
ill  tidings. 

197 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

"  'Tis  kilt  dead  entirely  he  is,  sorr,  we're  think- 
in',"  was  the  low-spoken  reply.  The  assistant 
engineer  had  no  enemies  among  the  workmen  at 
the  headquarters'  camp. 

Ballard  heard  a  horrified  gasp  behind  him,  and 
the  hammock  suddenly  swung  empty.  When  he 
turned,  Elsa  was  hurrying  out  through  the  open 
French  window  with  his  coat  and  hat. 

"You  must  not  lose  a  moment,"  she  urged. 
"Don't  wait  for  anything — I'll  explain  to  father 
and  Aunt  June.  Hurry!  hurry!  but,  oh,  do  be 
careful — careful  /" 

Ballard  dropped  from  the  edge  of  the  portico 
and  plunged  into  the  shrubbery  at  the  heels  of  the 
messenger.  The  young  woman,  still  pale  and 
strangely  perturbed,  hastened  to  find  her  aunt. 

"What  is  it,  child  ?     What  has  happened  ?" 

Miss  CaufFrey,  the  gentle-voiced,  had  been  doz 
ing  in  her  chair,  but  she  wakened  quickly  when 
Elsa  spoke  to  her. 

"It  is  another — accident;  at  the  construction 
camp.  Mr.  Ballard  had  to  go  immediately. 
Where  is  father?" 

Miss  Cauffrey  put  up  her  eye-glasses  and 
scanned  the  various  groups  within  eye-reach. 
Then  she  remembered.  "Oh,  yes;  I  think  I 
must  be  very  sleepy,  yet.  He  went  in  quite  a 
little  time  ago;  to  the  library  to  lie  down.  He  asked 

198 


Hospes  et  Hostis 

me  to  call  him  when  Mr.  Ballard  was  ready 
to  go." 

"Are  you  sure  of  that,  Aunt  June  ?" 

"Why — yes.  No,  that  wasn't  it,  either;  he 
asked  me  to  excuse  him  to  Mr.  Ballard.  I  re 
collect  now.  Dear  me,  child !  What  has  upset  you 
so  ?  You  look  positively  haggard." 

But  Elsa  had  fled;  first  to  the  library,  which  was 
empty,  and  then  to  her  father's  room  above  stairs. 
That  was  empty,  too,  but  the  coat  and  waistcoat  her 
father  had  worn  earlier  in  the  evening  were  lying 
upon  the  bed  as  if  thrown  aside  hurriedly.  While 
she  was  staring  panic-stricken  at  the  mute  evi 
dences  of  his  absence  she  heard  his  step  in  the 
corridor.  When  he  came  in,  less  familiar  eyes 
than  those  of  his  daughter  would  scarcely  have 
recognised  him.  He  was  muffled  to  the  heels  in 
a  long  rain-coat,  the  muscles  of  his  face  were 
twitching,  and  he  was  breathing  hard  like  a  spent 
runner. 

"Father!"  she  called,  softly;  but  he  either  did 
not  hear  or  did  not  heed.  He  had  flung  the  rain 
coat  aside  and  was  hastily  struggling  into  the  even 
ing  dress.  When  he  turned  from  the  dressing- 
mirror  she  could  hardly  keep  from  crying  out. 
With  the  swift  change  of  raiment  he  had  become 
himself  again;  and  a  few  minutes  later,  when  she 
had  followed  him  to  the  library  to  find  him  lying 

199 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

quietly  upon  the  reading-lounge,  half-asleep,  as  it 
seemed,  the  transformation  scene  in  the  upper 
room  became  more  than  ever  like  the  fleeting  im 
pression  of  an  incredible  dream. 

"  Father,  are  you  asleep  ?"  she  asked;  and  when 
he  sat  up  quickly  she  told  him  her  tidings  without 
preface. 

"Mr.  Bromley  is  hurt — fatally,  they  think — by  a 
fall  from  the  path  into  the  lower  canyon.  Mr. 
Ballard  has  gone  with  the  man  who  came  to  bring 
the  news.  Will  you  send  Otto  in  the  car  to  see  if 
there  is  anything  we  can  do  ?" 

"Bromley?  Oh,  no,  child;  it  can't  be  Brom 
ley!"  He  had  risen  to  his  feet  at  her  mention  of 
the  name,  but  now  he  sat  down  again  as  if  the  full 
tale  of  the  years  had  smitten  him  suddenly.  Then 
he  gave  his  directions,  brokenly,  and  with  a  curious 
thickening  of  the  deep-toned,  mellifluous  voice: 
:<Tell  Otto  to  bring  the  small  car  around  at — at 
once,  and  fetch  me  my  coat.  Of  cou'se,  my  deah,. 
I  shall  go  myself" — this  in  response  to  her  swift 
protest.  "I'm  quite  well  and  able;  just  a  little — 
a  little  sho'tness  of  breath.  Fetch  me  my  coat  and 
the  doctor-box,  thah's  a  good  girl.  But — but  I 
assure  you  it  can't  be — Bromley!" 


200 


The  muscles  of  his  face  were  twitching,  and  he  was  breathing 
hard.,  like  a  spent  runner 


XVI 
THE  RETURN  OF  THE  OMEN 

LOUDON  BROMLEY'S  principal  wounding 
was  a  pretty  seriously  broken  head,  got,  so 
said  Luigi,  the  Tuscan  river-watchman  who  had 
found  and  brought  him  in,  by  the  fall  from  the 
steep  hill  path  into  the  rocky  canyon. 

Ballard  reached  the  camp  at  the  heels  of  the 
Irish  newsbearer  shortly  after  the  unconscious  as 
sistant  had  been  carried  up  to  the  adobe  head 
quarters;  and  being,  like  most  engineers  with  field 
experience,  a  rough-and-ready  amateur  surgeon, 
he  cleared  the  room  of  the  throng  of  sympathising 
and  utterly  useless  stone  "buckies,"  and  fell  to 
work.  But  beyond  cleansing  the  wound  and  tele 
graphing  by  way  of  Denver  to  Aspen  for  skilled 
help,  there  was  little  he  could  do. 

The  telegraphing  promised  nothing.  Cutting 
out  all  the  probable  delays,  and  assuming  the 
Aspen  physician's  willingness  to  undertake  a 
perilous  night  gallop  over  a  barely  passable  moun 
tain  trail,  twelve  hours  at  the  very  shortest  must 
go  to  the  covering  of  the  forty  miles. 

201 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

Ballard  counted  the  slow  beats  of  the  fluttering 
pulse  and  shook  his  head  despairingly.  Since  he 
had  lived  thus  long  after  the  accident,  Bromley 
might  live  a  few  hours  longer.  But  it  seemed 
much  more  likely  that  the  flickering  candle  of  life 
might  go  out  with  the  next  breath.  Ballard  was 
unashamed  when  the  lights  in  the  little  bunk-room 
grew  dim  to  his  sight,  and  a  lump  came  in  his 
throat.  Jealousy,  if  the  sullen  self-centring  in 
the  sentimental  affair  had  grown  to  that,  was 
quenched  in  the  upwelling  tide  of  honest  grief. 
For  back  of  the  sex-selfishness,  and  far  more 
deeply  rooted,  was  the  strong  passion  of  brother- 
loyalty,  reawakened  now  and  eager  to  make 
amends — to  be  given  a  chance  to  make  amends— 
for  the  momentary  lapse  into  egoism. 

To  the  Kentuckian  in  this  hour  of  keen  misery 
came  an  angel  of  comfort  in  the  guise  of  his  late 
host,  the  master  of  Castle  'Cadia.  There  was  the 
stuttering  staccato  of  a  motor-car  breasting  the 
steep  grade  of  the  mesa  hill,  the  drumming  of  the 
released  engines  at  the  door  of  the  adobe,  and  the 
colonel  entered,  followed  by  Jerry  Blacklock,  who 
had  taken  the  chauffeur's  place  behind  the  pilot 
wheel  for  the  roundabout  drive  from  Castle  'Cadia. 
In  professional  silence,  and  with  no  more  than  a 
nod  to  the  watcher  at  the  bedside,  the  first  gentle 
man  of  Arcadia  laid  off  his  coat,  opened  a  kit  of 

202 


The  Return  of  the  Omen 

surgeon's  tools,  and  proceeded  to  save  Bromley 'slife,, 
for  the  time  being,  at  least,  by  skilfully  lifting  the 
broken  bone  which  was  slowly  pressing  him  to  death. 

"Thah,  suh,"  he  said,  the  melodious  voice  filling 
the  tin-roofed  shack  until  every  resonant  thing 
within  the  mud-brick  walls  seemed  to  vibrate  in 
harmonious  sympathy,  "thah,  suh;  what  mo* 
there  is  to  do  needn't  be  done  to-night.  To 
morrow  morning,  Mistuh  Ballard,  you'll  make  a 
right  comfo'table  litter  and  have  him  carried  up  to 
Castle  'Cadia,  and  among  us  all  we'll  try  to  ansuh 
for  him.  Not  a  word,  my  deah  suh;  it's  only  what 
that  deah  boy  would  do  for  the  most  wo'thless  one 
of  us.  I  tell  you,  Mistuh  Ballard,  we've  learned 
to  think  right  much  of  Loudon;  yes,  suh — right 
much." 

Ballard  was  thankful,  and  he  said  so.  Then  he 
spoke  of  the  Aspen-aimed  telegram. 

"Countehmand  it,  suh;  countehmand  it,"  was 
the  colonel's  direction.  "We'll  pull  him  through 
without  calling  in  the  neighbuhs.  Living  heah,  in 
such — ah — close  proximity  to  youh  man-mangling 
institutions,  I've  had  experience  enough  durin'  the 
past  year  or  so  to  give  me  standing  as  a  regular 
practitioneh;  I  have,  for  a  fact,  suh."  And  his 
mellow  laugh  was  like  the  booming  of  bees  among 
the  clover  heads. 

"I  don't  doubt  it  in  the  least,"  acknowledged 
203 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

Ballard;    and  then  he  thanked  young  Blacklock 
for  coming. 

"It  was  up  to  me,  wasn't  it,  Colonel  Craig- 
miles  ?"  said  the  collegian.  "Otto — Otto's  the 
house-shover,  you  know — flunked  his  job;  said  he 
wouldn't  be  responsible  for  anybody's  life  if  he 
had  to  drive  that  road  at  speed  in  the  night.  We 
drove  it  all  right,  though,  didn't  we,  Colonel  ? 
And  we'll  drive  it  back." 

The  King  of  Arcadia  put  a  hand  on  Ballard's 
shoulder  and  pointed  an  appreciative  finger  at 
Blacklock. 

'That  young  cub,  suh,  hasn't  any  mo'  horse 
sense  than  one  of  youh  Dago  mortah-mixers;  but 
the  way  he  drives  a  motor-car  is  simply  scandalous! 
Why,  suh,  if  my  hair  hadn't  been  white  when  we 
started,  it  would  have  tu'ned  on  me  long  befo'  we 
made  the  loop  around  Dump  Mountain." 

Ballard  went  to  the  door  with  the  two  Good 
Samaritans,  saw  the  colonel  safely  settled  in  the 
runabout,  and  let  his  gaze  follow  the  winding 
course  of  the  little  car  until  the  dodging  tail-light 
had  crossed  the  temporary  bridge  below  the  camp, 
to  be  lost  among  the  shoulders  of  the  opposite 
hills.  The  elder  Fitzpatrick  was  at  his  elbow 
when  he  turned  to  go  in. 

"There's  hope  Pr  the  little  man,  Misther  Bal 
lard  ?"  he  inquired  anxiously. 

204 


The  Return  of  the  Omen 

"Good  hope,  now,  I  think,  Michael." 

"That's  the  brave  wor-rd.  The  min  do  be 
sittin'  up  in  th'  bunk-shanties  to  hear  ut.  'Twas 
all  through  the  camp  the  minut'  they  brought  him 
in.  There  isn't  a  man  av  thim  that  wouldn't  go 
t'rough  fire  and  wather  f'r  Misther  Bromley — and 
that's  no  joke.  Is  there  annything  I  can  do  ?" 

"Nothing,  thank  you.  Tell  the  yard  watchman 
to  stay  within  call,  and  I'll  send  for  you  if  you're 
needed." 

With  this  provision  for  the  possible  need,  the 
young  chief  kept  the  vigil  alone,  sitting  where  he 
could  see  the  face  of  the  still  unconscious  victim 
of  fate,  or  tramping  three  steps  and  a  turn  in  the 
adjoining  office  room  when  sleep  threatened  to 
overpower  him. 

It  was  a  time  for  calm  second  thought;  for  a 
reflective  weighing  of  the  singular  and  ominous 
conditions  partly  revealed  in  the  week  agone  talk 
with  Elsa  Craigmiles.  That  she  knew  more  than 
she  was  willing  to  tell  had  been  plainly  evident  in 
that  first  evening  on  the  tree-pillared  portico  at 
Castle  'Cadia;  but  beyond  this  assumption  the 
unanswerable  questions  clustered  quickly,  opening 
door  after  door  of  speculative  conjecture  in  the 
background. 

What  was  the  motive  behind  the  hurled  stone 
which  had  so  nearly  bred  a  tragedy  on  his  first  even- 

205 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

ing  at  Elbow  Canyon  ?  He  reflected  that  he  had 
always  been  too  busy  to  make  personal  enemies; 
therefore,  the  attempt  upon  his  life  must  have  been 
impersonal — must  have  been  directed  at  the  chief 
engineer  of  the  Arcadia  Company.  Assuming  this, 
the  chain  of  inference  linked  itself  rapidly.  Was 
Macpherson's  death  purely  accidental  ? — or  Braith- 
waite's  ?  If  not,  who  was  the  murderer  ? — and 
why  was  the  colonel's  daughter  so  evidently  deter 
mined  to  shield  him  ? 

The  answer,  the  purely  logical  answer,  pointed 
to  one  man — her  father — and  thereupon  became  a 
thing  to  be  scoffed  at.  It  was  more  than  incredible; 
it  was  blankly  unthinkable. 

The  young  Kentuckian,  descendant  of  pioneers 
who  had  hewn  their  beginnings  out  of  the  primi 
tive  wilderness,  taking  life  as  they  found  it,  was 
practical  before  all  things  else.  Villains  of  the 
Borgian  strain  no  longer  existed,  save  in  the  un 
real  world  of  the  novelist  or  the  play-writer.  And 
if,  by  any  stretch  of  imagination,  they  might  still 
be  supposed  to  exist.  .  .  . 

Ballard  brushed  the  supposition  impatiently 
aside  when  he  thought  of  the  woman  he  loved. 

"Anything  but  that!"  he  exclaimed,  breaking 
the  silence  of  the  four  bare  walls  for  the  sake  of 
hearing  the  sound  of  his  own  voice.  "And,  be 
sides,  the  colonel  himself  is  a  living,  breathing 

206 


The  Return  of  the  Omen 

refutation  of  any  such  idiotic  notion.  All  the  same, 
if  it  is  not  her  father  she  is  trying  to  shield,  who,  in 
the  name  of  all  that  is  good,  can  it  be  ?  And  why 
should  Colonel  Craigmiles,  or  anyone  else,  be  so 
insanely  vindictive  as  to  imagine  that  the  killing  of 
a  few  chiefs  of  construction  will  cut  any  figure  with 
the  company  which  hires  them  ?" 

These  perplexing  questions  were  still  unan 
swered  when  the  graying  dawn  found  him  dozing 
in  his  chair,  with  the  camp  whistles  sounding  the 
early  turn-out,  and  Bromley  conscious  and  beg 
ging  feebly  for  a  drink  of  water. 


207 


XVII 
THE  DERRICK  FUMBLES 

BROMLEY  had  been  a  week  in  hospital  at  the 
great  house  in  the  upper  valley,  and  was  re 
covering  as  rapidly  as  a  clean-living,  well-ances- 
tored  man  should,  when  Ballard  was  surprised  one 
morning  by  a  descent  of  the  entire  Castle  'Cadia 
garrison,  lacking  only  the  colonel  and  Miss  Cauf- 
frey,  upon  the  scene  of  activities  at  the  dam. 

The  chief  of  construction  had  to  flog  himself 
sharply  into  the  hospitable  line  before  he  could 
make  the  invaders  welcome.  He  had  a  working- 
man's  shrewd  impatience  of  interruptions;  and 
since  the  accident  which  had  deprived  him  of  his 
assistant,  he  had  been  doing  double  duty.  On 
this  particular  morning  he  was  about  to  leave  for 
a  flying  round  of  the  camps  on  the  railroad  ex 
tension;  but  he  reluctantly  countermanded  the 
order  for  the  locomotive  when  he  saw  Elsa  picking 
the  way  for  her  guests  among  the  obstructions  in 
the  stone  yard. 

"Please — oh,  please  don't  look  so  inhospitable!" 
208 


The  Derrick  Fumbles 

she  begged,  in  well-simulated  dismay,  when  the 
irruption  of  sight-seers  had  fairly  surrounded  him. 
"We  have  driven  and  fished  and  climbed  moun 
tains  and  played  children's  games  at  home  until 
there  was  positively  nothing  else  to  do.  Pacify 
him,  Cousin  Janet — he's  going  to  warn  us  off!" 

Ballard  laughingly  disclaimed  any  such  ungra 
cious  intention,  and  proceeded  to  prove  his  words 
by  deeds.  Young  Blacklock  and  Bigelow  were 
easily  interested  in  the  building  details;  the  women 
were  given  an  opportunity  to  see  the  inside  work 
ings  of  the  men's  housekeeping  in  the  shacks,  the 
mess-tent  and  the  camp  kitchen;  the  major  was 
permitted  and  encouraged  to  be  loftily  critical  of 
everything;  and  Wingfield — but  Ballard  kept  the 
playwright  carefully  tethered  in  a  sort  of  moral 
hitching-rope,  holding  the  end  of  the  rope  in  his 
own  hands. 

Once  openly  committed  as  entertainer,  the  young 
Kentuckian  did  all  that  could  be  expected  of  him 
— and  more.  When  the  visitors  had  surfeited 
themselves  on  concrete-mixing  and  stone-laying 
and  camp  housekeeping,  the  chief  engineer  had 
plank  seats  placed  on  a  flat  car,  and  the  invaders 
were  whisked  away  on  an  impromptu  and  person 
ally  conducted  railway  excursion  to  some  of  the 
nearer  ditch  camps. 

Before  leaving  the  headquarters,  Ballard  gave 
209 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

Fitzpatrick  an  Irish  hint;  and  when  the  excursion 
ists  returned  from  the  railway  jaunt,  there  was  a 
miraculous  luncheon  served  in  the  big  mess-tent. 
Garou,  the  French-Canadian  camp  cook,  had  a 
soul  above  the  bare  necessities  when  the  occasion 
demanded;  and  he  had  Ballard's  private  commis 
sary  to  draw  upon. 

After  the  luncheon  Ballard  let  his  guests  scatter 
as  they  pleased,  charging  himself,  as  before,  par 
ticularly  with  the  oversight  and  wardenship  of  Mr. 
Lester  Wingfield.  There  was  only  one  chance  in 
a  hundred  that  the  playwright,  left  to  his  own 
devices,  might  stumble  upon  the  skeleton  in  the 
camp  closet.  But  the  Kentuckian  was  deter 
mined  to  make  that  one  chance  ineffective. 

Several  things  came  of  the  hour  spent  as  Wing- 
field's  keeper  while  the  others  were  visiting  the 
wing  dam  and  the  quarry,  the  spillway,  and  the 
cut-off  tunnel,  under  Fitzpatrick  as  megaphonist. 
One  of  them  was  a  juster  appreciation  of  the  play 
wright  as  a  man  and  a  brother.  Ballard  smiled 
mentally  when  he  realised  that  his  point  of  view 
had  been  that  of  the  elemental  lover,  jealous  of  a 
possible  rival.  Wingfield  was  not  half  a  bad  sort, 
he  admitted;  a  little  inclined  to  pose,  since  it  was 
his  art  to  epitomise  a  world  of  poseurs;  an  enthu 
siast  in  his  calling;  but  at  bottom  a  workable  com 
panion  and  the  shrewdest  of  observers. 

210 


The  Derrick  Fumbles 

In  deference  to  the  changed  point  of  view,  the 
Kentuckian  did  penance  for  the  preconceived 
prejudice  and  tried  to  make  the  playwright's  in 
sulation  painless.  The  sun  shone  hot  on  the  stone 
yard,  and  there  was  a  jar  of  passable  tobacco  in  the 
office  adobe :  would  Wingfield  care  to  go  indoors 
and  lounge  until  the  others  came  to  a  proper 
sense  of  the  desirability  of  shade  and  quietude  on 
a  hot  afternoon  ? 

Wingfield  would,  gladly.  He  confessed  shame 
lessly  to  a  habit  of  smoking  his  after-luncheon  pipe 
on  his  back.  There  was  a  home-made  divan  in 
the  office  quarters,  with  cushions  and  blanket  cov 
erings,  and  Ballard  found  the  tobacco-jar  and  a 
clean  pipe;  a  long-stemmed  "churchwarden," 
dear  to  the  heart  of  a  lazy  man. 

"Now  this  is  what  I  call  solid  comfort,"  said  the 
playwright,  stretching  his  long  legs  luxuriously  on 
the  divan.  "A  man's  den  that  is  a  den,  and  not  a 
bric-a-brac  shop  masquerading  under  the  name, 
a  good  pipe,  good  tobacco,  and  good  company. 
You  fellows  have  us  world-people  faded  to  a 
shadow  when  it  comes  to  the  real  thing.  I've  felt 
it  in  my  bones  all  along  that  I  was  missing  the 
best  part  of  this  trip  by  not  getting  in  with  you 
down  here.  But  every  time  I've  tried  to  break 
away,  something  else  has  turned  up." 

Ballard  was  ready  with  his  bucket  of  cold  water. 
211 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

"You  haven't  missed  anything.  There  isn't 
much  in  a  construction  camp  to  invite  the  literary 
mind,  I  should  say."  And  he  tried  to  make  the 
saying  sound  not  too  inhospitable. 

"Oh,  you're  off  wrong,  there/'  argued  the  play 
wright,  with  cheerful  arrogance.  "You  probably 
haven't  a  sense  of  the  literary  values;  a  good  many 
people  haven't — born  blind  on  that  side,  you  know. 
Now,  Miss  Van  Bryck  has  the  seeing  eye,  to  an 
educated  finish.  She  tells  me  you  have  a  dra 
matic  situation  down  here  every  little  so-while.  She 
told  me  that  story  of  yours  about  the  stone  smash 
ing  into  your  office  in  the  middle  of  the  night. 
That's  simply  ripping  good  stuff — worlds  of  pos 
sibilities  in  a  thing  like  that,  don't  you  know  ?  By 
the  way,  this  is  the  room,  isn't  it  ?  Does  that  patch 
in  the  ceiling  cover  the  hole  ?" 

Ballard  admitted  the  fact,  and  strove  manfully 
to  throw  the  switch  ahead  of  the  querist  to  the  end 
that  the  talk  might  be  shunted  to  some  less  dan 
gerous  topic. 

"Hang  the  tobacco!"  snapped  the  guest  irritably, 
retorting  upon  Ballard's  remark  about  the  quality 
of  his  pet  smoking  mixture.  "You  and  Miss 
Craigmiles  seem  to  be  bitten  with  the  same  exas 
perating  mania  for  subject-changing.  I'd  like  to 
hear  that  rock-throwing  story  at  first  hands,  if 
you  don't  mind." 

212 


The  Derrick  Fumbles 

Having  no  good  reason  for  refusing  point-blank, 
Ballard  told  the  story,  carefully  divesting  it  of  all 
the  little  mystery  thrills  which  he  had  included 
for  Miss  Dosia's  benefit. 

"Urn!"  commented  Wingfield,  at  the  close  of 
the  bald  narration.  "It  would  seem  to  have  lost 
a  good  bit  in  the  way  of  human  interest  since  Miss 
Van  Bryck  repeated  it  to  me.  Did  you  embroider 
it  for  her  ?  or  did  she  put  in  the  little  hemstitchings 
for  me?" 

Ballard  laughed. 

"I  am  sorry  if  I  have  spoiled  it  for  you.  But 
you  couldn't  make  a  dramatic  situation  out  of  a 
careless  quarryman's  overloading  of  a  shot-hole." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  the  playwright,  apparently  giv 
ing  it  up.  And  he  smoked  his  pipe  out  in  silence. 

Ballard  thought  the  incident  was  comfortably 
dead  and  buried,  but  he  did  not  know  his  man. 
Long  after  Wingfield  might  be  supposed  to  have 
forgotten  all  about  the  stone  catapulting,  he  sat 
up  suddenly  and  broke  out  again. 

"Say!  you  explained  to  Miss  Dosia  that  the 
stone  couldn't  possibly  have  come  from  the  quarry 
without  knocking  the  science  of  artillery  into  a 
cocked  hat.  She  made  a  point  of  that." 

"Oh,  hold  on!"  protested  the  Kentuckian. 
"You  mustn't  hold  me  responsible  for  a  bit  of 
dinner-table  talk  with  a  very  charming  young 

213 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

woman.  Perhaps  Miss  Dosia  wished  to  be  mys 
tified.  I  put  it  to  you  as  man  to  man;  would  you 
have  disappointed  her?" 

The  playwright's  laugh  showed  his  fine  teeth. 

"They  tell  me  you  are  at  the  top  of  the  heap  in 
your  profession,  Mr.  Ballard,  and  I  can  easily  be 
lieve  it.  But  I  have  a  specialty,  too,  and  I'm  no 
slouch  in  it.  My  little  stunt  is  prying  into  the  inner 
consciousness  of  things.  Obviously,  there  is  a 
mystery — a  real  mystery — about  this  stone-throw 
ing  episode,  and  for  some  reason  you  are  trying  to 
keep  me  from  dipping  into  it.  Conversely,  I'd 
like  to  get  to  the  bottom  of  it.  Tell  me  frankly, 
is  there  any  good  reason  why  I  shouldn't?" 

Ballard's  salvation  for  this  time  personified  it 
self  in  the  figure  of  Contractor  Fitzpatrick  darken 
ing  the  door  of  the  office  to  ask  a  "question  of  in 
formation,"  as  he  phrased  it.  Hence  there  was 
an  excuse  for  a  break  and  a  return  to  the  sun- 
kissed  stone  yard. 

The  engineer  purposefully  prolonged  the  talk 
with  Fitzpatrick  until  the  scattered  sight-seers  had 
gathered  for  a  descent,  under  Jerry  Blacklock's 
lead,  to  the  great  ravine  below  the  dam  where  the 
river  thundered  out  of  the  cut-ofF  tunnel.  But 
when  he  saw  that  Miss  Craigmiles  had  elected  to 
stay  behind,  and  that  Wingfield  had  attached  him 
self  to  the  younger  Miss  Cantrell,  he  gave  the  con- 

214 


The  Derrick  Fumbles 

tractor  his  information  boiled  down  into  a  curt 
sentence  or  two,  and  hastened  to  join  the  stay- 
behind. 

"You'll  melt,  out  here  in  the  sun,"  he  said,  over 
taking  her  as  she  stood  looking  down  into  the 
whirling  vortex  made  by  the  torrent's  plunge  into 
the  entrance  of  the  cut-off  tunnel. 

She  ignored  the  care-taking  phrase  as  if  she  had 
not  heard  it. 

"Mr.  Wingfield  ? — you  have  kept  him  from  get 
ting  interested  in  the — in  the " 

Ballard  nodded. 

"He  is  interested,  beyond  doubt.  But  for  the 
present  moment  I  have  kept  him  from  adding 
anything  to  Miss  Dosia's  artless  gossip.  Will 
you  permit  me  to  suggest  that  it  was  taking 
rather  a  long  chance  ? — your  bringing  him  down 
here?" 

"I  know;  but  I  couldn't  help  it.  Dosia  would 
have  brought  him  on  your  invitation.  I  did  every 
thing  I  could  think  of  to  obstruct;  and  when  they 
had  beaten  me,  I  made  a  party  affair  of  it.  You'll 
have  to  forgive  me  for  spoiling  an  entire  working 
day  for  you." 

"  Since  it  has  given  me  a  chance  to  be  with  you, 
I'm  only  too  happy  in  losing  the  day,"  he  said;  and 
he  meant  it.  But  he  let  her  know  the  worst  in  the 
other  matter  in  an  added  sentence.  "I'm  afraid 

215 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

the  mischief  is  done  in  Wingfield's  affair,  in  spite 
of  everything/' 

"How  ? "  she  asked,  and  the  keen  anxiety  in  the 
grey  eyes  cut  him  to  the  heart. 

He  told  her  briefly  of  the  chance  arousing  of 
Wingfield's  curiosity,  and  of  the  playwright's 
expressed  determination  to  fathom  the  mystery 
of  the  table-smashing  stone.  Her  dismay  was 
pathetic. 

"You  should  never  have  taken  him  into  your 
office,"  she  protested  reproachfully.  "He  was 
sure  to  be  reminded  of  Dosia's  story  there." 

"I  didn't  foresee  that,  and  he  was  beginning  to 
gossip  with  the  workmen.  I  knew  it  wouldn't  be 
long  before  he  would  get  the  story  of  the  happen 
ings  out  of  the  men — with  all  the  garnishings." 

"  You  must  find  a  way  to  stop  him,"  she  insisted 
"If  you  could  only  know  what  terrible  conse 
quences  are  wrapped  up  in  it!" 

He  waited  until  a  stone  block,  dangling  in  the 
clutch  of  the  derrick-fall  above  its  appointed  rest 
ing-place  on  the  growing  wall  of  masonry,  had 
been  lowered  into  the  cement  bed  prepared  for  it 
before  he  said,  soberly:  "That  is  the  trouble — I 
dont  know.  And,  short  of  quarrelling  outright 
with  Wingfield,  I  don't  think  of  any  effective  way 
of  muzzling  him." 

"No;  you  mustn't  do  that.  There  is  misery 
216 


The  Derrick  Fumbles 

enough  and  enmity  enough,  without  making  any 
more.  I'll  try  to  keep  him  away." 

"You  will  fail,"  he  prophesied,  with  conviction. 
"Mr.  Wingfield  calls  himself  a  builder  of  plots; 
but  I  can  assure  you  from  this  one  day's  observa 
tion  of  him  that  he  would  much  rather  unravel  a 
plot  than  build  one." 

She  was  silent  while  the  workmen  were  swinging 
another  great  stone  out  over  the  canyon  chasm. 
The  shadow  of  the  huge  derrick-boom  swept 
around  and  across  them,  and  she  shuddered  as  if 
the  intangible  thing  had  been  an  icy  finger  to 
touch  her. 

"You  must  help  me,"  she  pleaded.  "I  cannot 
see  the  way  a  single  step  ahead." 

"And  I  am  in  still  deeper  darkness,"  he  re 
minded  her  gently.  "You  forget  that  I  do  not 
know  what  threatens  you,  or  how  it  threatens." 

"I  can't  tell  you;  I  can't  tell  any  one,"  she  said; 
and  he  made  sure  there  was  a  sob  at  the  catching 
of  her  breath. 

As  once  before,  he  grew  suddenly  masterful. 

"You  are  wronging  yourself  and  me,  Elsa, 
dear.  You  forget  that  your  trouble  is  mine;  that 
in  the  end  we  two  shall  be  one  in  spite  of  all  the 
obstacles  that  a  crazy  fate  can  invent." 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  told  you  once  that  you 
must  not  forget  yourself  again;  and  you  are  for- 

217 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

getting.  There  is  one  obstacle  which  can  never 
be  overcome  this  side  of  the  grave.  You  must 
always  remember  that." 

"I  remember  only  that  I  love  you,"  he  dared; 
adding:  "And  you  are  afraid  to  tell  me  what  this 
obstacle  is.  You  know  it  would  vanish  in  the 
telling." 

She  did  not  answer. 

"You  won't  tell  me  that  you  are  in  love  with 
Wingfield?"  he  persisted. 

Still  no  reply. 

"Elsa,  dearest,  can  you  look  me  in  the  eyes  and 
tell  me  that  you  do  not  love  me?" 

She  neither  looked  nor  denied. 

"Then  that  is  all  I  need  to  know  at  present,"  he 
went  on  doggedly.  "I  shall  absolutely  and  posi 
tively  refuse  to  recognise  any  other  obstacle." 

She  broke  silence  so  swiftly  that  the  words 
seemed  to  leap  to  her  lips. 

"There  is  one,  dear  friend,"  she  said,  with  a 
warm  upflash  of  strong  emotion;  "one  that  neither 
you  nor  I,  nor  any  one  can  overcome!"  She 
pointed  down  at  the  boulder-riven  flood  churning 
itself  into  spray  in  the  canyon  pot  at  their  feet. 
"I  will  measure  it  for  you — and  for  myself,  God 
help  us!  Rather  than  be  your  wife — the  mother 
of  your  children — I  should  gladly,  joyfully,  fling 
myself  into  that." 

218 


The  Derrick  Fumbles 

The  motion  he  made  to  catch  her,  to  draw  her 
back  from  the  brink  of  the  chasm,  was  purely  me 
chanical,  but  it  served  to  break  the  strain  of  a 
situation  that  had  become  suddenly  impossible. 

uThat  was  almost  tragic,  wasn't  it  ?"  she  asked, 
with  a  swift  retreat  behind  the  barricades  of  mock 
ery.  "In  another  minute  we  should  have  tumbled 
headlong  into  melodrama,  with  poor  Mr.  Wing- 
field  hopelessly  out  of  reach  for  the  note-taking 
process." 

"Then  you  didn't  mean  what  you  were  saying  ?" 
he  demanded,  trying  hard  to  overtake  the  fleeing 
realities. 

"I  did,  indeed;  don't  make  me  say  it  again. 
The  lights  are  up,  and  the  audience  might  be  look 
ing.  See  how  manfully  Mr.  Bigelow  is  trying  not 
to  let  Cousin  Janet  discover  how  she  is  crushing 
him!" 

Out  of  the  lower  ravine  the  other  members  of 
the  party  were  straggling,  with  Bigelow  giving  first 
aid  to  a  breathless  and  panting  Mrs.  Van  Bryck, 
and  Wingfield  and  young  Blacklock  helping  first 
one  and  then  another  of  the  four  younger  women. 
The  workmen  in  the  cutting  yard  were  preparing 
to  swing  a  third  massive  face-block  into  place  on 
the  dam;  and  Miss  Craigmiles,  quite  her  serene  self 
again,  was  asking  to  be  shown  how  the  grappling 
hooks  were  made  fast  in  the  process  of  "toggling." 

219 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

Ballard  accepted  his  defeat  with  what  philosophy 
he  could  muster,  and  explained  the  technical  de 
tail.  Then  the  others  came  up,  and  the  buck- 
boards  sent  down  from  Castle  'Cadia  to  take  the 
party  home  were  seen  wheeling  into  line  at  the 
upper  end  of  the  short  foothill  canyon. 

"There  is  our  recall  at  last,  Mr.  Ballard," 
gasped  the  breathless  chaperon,  "and  I  daresay 
you  are  immensely  relieved.  But  you  mustn't  be 
too  sorry  for  your  lost  day.  We  have  had  a  per 
fectly  lovely  time." 

"  Such  a  delightful  day!"  echoed  the  two  sharers 
of  the  common  Christian  name  in  unison;  and  the 
king's  daughter  added  demurely:  "Don't  you  see 
we  are  all  waiting  for  you  to  ask  us  to  come  again, 
Mr.  Ballard?" 

"Oh,  certainly;  any  time,"  said  Ballard,  coming 
to  the  surface.  Notwithstanding,  on  the  short 
walk  up  to  the  waiting  buckboards  he  sank  into 
the  sea  of  perplexity  again.  Elsa's  moods  had 
always  puzzled  him.  If  they  were  not  real,  as  he 
often  suspected,  they  were  artistically  perfect  imi 
tations;  and  he  was  never  quite  sure  that  he  could 
distinguish  between  the  real  and  the  simulated. 

As  at  the  present  moment:  the  light-hearted 
young  woman  walking  beside  him  up  the  steep 
canyon  path  was  the  very  opposite  of  the  sorely 
tried  and  anxious  one  who  had  twice  let  him  see 

220 


The  Derrick  Fumbles 

the  effects  of  the  anxiety,  however  carefully  she 
concealed  the  cause. 

The  perplexed  wonder  was  still  making  him  half 
abstracted  when  he  put  himself  in  the  way  to  help 
her  into  one  of  the  homeward-headed  vehicles. 
They  were  a  little  in  advance  of  the  others,  and 
when  she  faced  him  to  say  good-bye,  he  saw  her 
eyes.  Behind  the  smile  in  them  the  trouble  shad 
ows  were  still  lurking;  and  when  the  heartening 
word  was  on  his  lips  they  looked  past  him,  dilating 
suddenly  with  a  great  horror. 

"Look!"  she  cried,  pointing  back  to  the  dam; 
and  when  he  wheeled  he  saw  that  they  were  all 
looking;  standing  agape  as  if  they  had  been  shown 
the  Medusa's  head.  The  third  great  stone  had 
been  swung  out  over  the  dam,  and,  little  by  little, 
with  jerkings  that  made  the  wire  cables  snap  and 
sing,  the  grappling-hooks  were  losing  their  hold  in 
mid-air.  The  yells  of  the  workmen  imperilled 
rose  sharply  above  the  thunder  of  the  river,  and 
the  man  at  the  winding-drums  seemed  to  have  lost 
his  nerve  and  his  head. 

Young  Blacklock,  who  was  taking  an  engineer 
ing  course  in  college,  turned  and  ran  back  down 
the  path,  shouting  like  a  madman.  Ballard  made 
a  megaphone  of  his  hands  and  bellowed  an  order 
to  the  unnerved  hoister  engineer.  "Lower  away  I 
Drop  it,  you  blockhead!"  he  shouted;  but  the 

221 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

command  came  too  late.  With  a  final  jerk  the 
slipping  hooks  gave  way,  and  the  three-ton  cube 
of  granite  dropped  like  a  huge  projectile,  striking 
the  stonework  of  the  darn  with  a  crash  like  an 
explosion  of  dynamite. 

Dosia  Van  Bryck's  shriek  was  ringing  in  Bal- 
lard's  ears,  and  the  look  of  frozen  horror  on  Elsa's 
face  was  before  his  eyes,  when  he  dashed  down  the 
steep  trail  at  Blacklock's  heels.  Happily,  there 
was  no  one  killed;  no  one  seriously  hurt.  On  the 
dam-head  Fitzpatrick  was  climbing  to  a  point  of 
vantage  to  shout  the  news  to  the  yard  men  cluster 
ing  thickly  on  the  edge  of  the  cliff  above,  and 
Ballard  went  only  far  enough  to  make  sure  that 
there  had  been  no  loss  of  life.  Then  he  turned 
and  hastened  back  to  the  halted  buckboards. 

"Thank  God,  it's  only  a  money  loss,  this  time!" 
he  announced.  "The  hooks  held  long  enough  to 
give  the  men  time  to  get  out  of  the  way." 

"  There  was  no  one  hurt  ?  Are  you  sure  there 
was  no  one  hurt?"  panted  Mrs.  Van  Bryck,  fan 
ning  herself  vigorously. 

"No  one  at  all.  I'm  awfully  sorry  we  had  to 
give  you  such  a  shock  for  your  leave-taking,  but 
accidents  will  happen,  now  and  then.  You  will 
excuse  me  if  I  go  at  once  ?  There  is  work  to  be 
done." 

"  H'm — ha !    One  moment,  Mr.  Ballard,"  rasped 

222 


The  Derrick  Fumbles 

the  major,  swelling  up  like  a  man  on  the  verge  of 
apoplexy.  But  Mrs.  Van  Bryck  was  not  to  be  set 
aside. 

"  Oh,  certainly,  we  will  excuse  you.  Please  don't 
waste  a  moment  on  us.  You  shouldn't  have 
troubled  to  come  back.  So  sorry — it  was  very 
dreadful — terrible!" 

While  the  chaperon  was  groping  for  her  mis 
placed  self-composure,  Wingfield  said  a  word  or 
two  to  Dosia,  who  was  his  seat-mate,  and  sprang 
to  the  ground. 

"  Hold  on  a  second,  Ballard ! "  he  called.  "  I'm 
going  with  you.  What  you  need  right  now  is  a 
trained  investigator,  and  I'm  your  man.  Great 
Scott!  to  think  that  a  thing  like  that  should  hap 
pen,  and  I  should  be  here  to  see  it!"  And  then  to 
Miss  Craigmiles,  who  appeared  to  be  trying  very 
earnestly  to  dissuade  him:  "Oh,  no,  Miss  Elsa; 
I  sha'n't  get  underfoot  or  be  in  Mr.  Ballard's  way; 
and  you  needn't  trouble  to  send  down  for  me.  I 
can  pad  home  on  my  two  feet,  later  on." 


223 


XVIII 
THE  INDICTMENT 

IN  the  days  following  the  episode  of  the  tum 
bling  granite  block,  Wingfield  came  and  went 
unhindered  between  Castle  'Cadia  and  the  con 
struction  camp  at  Elbow  Canyon,  sometimes  with 
Jerry  Blacklock  for  a  companion,  but  oftener  alone. 
Short  of  the  crude  expedient  of  telling  him  that 
his  room  was  more  to  be  desired  than  his  company, 
Ballard  could  think  of  no  pretext  for  excluding 
him;  and  as  for  keeping  him  in  ignorance  of  the 
linked  chain  of  accidents  and  tragedies,  it  was  to 
be  presumed  that  his  first  unrestricted  day  among 
the  workmen  had  put  him  in  possession  of  all  the 
facts  with  all  their  exaggerations. 

How  deeply  the  playwright  was  interested  in 
the  tale  of  disaster  and  mysterious  ill  luck,  no  one 
knew  precisely;  not  even  young  Blacklock,  who 
was  systematically  sounded,  first  by  Miss  Craig- 
miles,  and  afterward  at  regular  intervals  by  Bal 
lard.  As  Blacklock  saw  it,  Wingfield  was  merely 
killing  time  at  the  construction  camp.  When  he 

224 


The  Indictment 

was  not  listening  to  the  stories  of  the  men  off  duty, 
or  telling  them  equally  marvellous  stones  of  his 
own,  he  was  lounging  in  the  adobe  bungalow, 
lying  flat  on  his  back  on  the  home-made  divan 
with  his  clasped  hands  for  a  pillow,  smoking 
Ballard's  tobacco,  or  sitting  in  one  of  the  lazy- 
chairs  and  reading  with  apparent  avidity  and  the 
deepest  abstraction  one  or  another  of  Bromley's 
dry-as-dust  text-books  on  the  anatomy  of  birds 
and  the  taxidermic  art. 

"Whatever  it  is  that  you  are  dreading  in  con 
nection  with  Wingfield  and  the  camp  *  bogie' 
isn't  happening,"  Ballard  told  the  king's  daughter 
one  morning  when  he  came  down  from  Bromley's 
hospital  room  at  Castle  'Cadia  and  found  Elsa 
waiting  for  him  under  the  portieres  of  the  darkened 
library.  "  For  a  man  who  talks  so  feelingly  about 
the  terrible  drudgery  of  literary  work,  your  play- 
writer  is  certainly  a  striking  example  of  simon- 
pure  laziness.  He  is  perfectly  innocuous.  When  he 
isn't  half  asleeep  on  my  office  lounge,  or  dawdling 
among  the  masons  or  stone-cutters,  he  is  reading 
straight  through  Bromley's  shelf  of  bird-books. 
He  may  be  absorbing  '  local  color,'  but  if  he  is,  he 
is  letting  the  environment  do  all  the  work.  I 
don't  believe  he  has  had  a  consciously  active  idea 
since  he  began  loafing  with  us." 

"You  are  mistaken — greatly  mistaken,"  was  all 
225 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

she  would  say;  and  in  the  fulness  of  time  a  day 
came  when  the  event  proved  how  far  a  woman's 
intuition  may  outrun  a  man's  reasoning. 

It  was  the  occasion  of  Bromley's  first  return  to 
the  camp  at  Elbow  Canyon,  four  full  weeks  after 
the  night  of  stumbling  on  the  steep  path.  Young 
Blacklock  had  driven  him  by  the  roundabout  road 
in  the  little  motor-car;  and  the  camp  industries 
paused  while  the  men  gave  the  "Little  Boss"  an 
enthusiastic  ovation.  Afterward,  the  convalescent 
was  glad  enough  to  lie  down  on  the  makeshift 
lounge  in  the  office  bungalow;  but  when  Jerry 
would  have  driven  him  back  in  time  for  luncheon 
at  Castle  'Cadia,  as  his  strict  orders  from  Miss 
Elsa  ran,  Bromley  begged  to  be  allowed  to  put  his 
feet  under  the  office  mess-table  with  his  chief  and 
his  volunteer  chauffeur. 

To  the  three,  doing  justice  to  the  best  that 
Garou  could  find  in  the  camp  commissary  stores, 
came  Mr.  Lester  Wingfield,  to  drag  up  a  stool  and 
to  make  himself  companionably  at  home  at  the 
engineers'  mess,  as  his  custom  had  come  to  be. 
Until  the  meal  was  ended  and  the  pipes  were 
filled,  he  was  silent  and  abstracted  to  the  edge  of 
rudeness.  But  when  Ballard  made  a  move  to  go 
down  to  the  railroad  yard  with  Fitzpatrick,  the 
spell  was  broken. 

"Hold  up  a  minute;  don't  rush  off  so  frantic- 
226 


The  Indictment 

ally,"  he  cut  in  abruptly.  "I  have  been  waiting 
for  many  days  to  get  you  and  Bromley  together 
for  a  little  confidential  confab  about  matters  and 
things,  and  the  time  has  come.  Sit  down." 

Ballard  resumed  his  seat  at  the  table  with  an 
air  of  predetermined  patience,  and  the  playwright 
nodded  approval.  "That's  right,"  he  went  on, 
"brace  yourself  to  take  it  as  it  comes;  but  you 
needn't  write  your  reluctance  so  plainly  in  your 
face.  It's  understood." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  objected  Bal 
lard,  not  quite  truthfully. 

Wingfield  laughed. 

uYou  didn't  want  me  to  come  down  here  at 
first;  and  since  I've  been  coming  you  haven't  been 
too  excitedly  glad  to  see  me.  But  that's  all  right, 
too.  It's  what  the  public  benefactor  usually  gets  for 
butting  in.  Just  the  same,  there  is  a  thing  to  be 
done,  and  I've  got  to  do  it.  I  may  bore  you  both 
in  the  process,  but  I  have  reached  a  point  where  a 
pow-wow  is  a  shrieking  necessity.  I  have  done 
one  of  two  things:  I've  unearthed  the  most  devil 
ish  plot  that  ever  existed,  or  else  I  have  stumbled 
into  a  mare's  nest  of  fairly  heroic  proportions." 

By  this  time  he  was  reasonably  sure  of  his 
audience.  Bromley,  still  rather  pallid  and  weak, 
squared  himself  with  an  elbow  on  the  table. 
Blacklock  got  up  to  stand  behind  the  assistant's 

227 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

chair.  Ballard  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets 
and  frowned.  The  moment  had  probably  arrived 
when  he  would  have  to  fight  fire  with  fire  for  Elsa 
Craigmiles's  sake,  and  he  was  pulling  himself  to 
gether  for  the  battle. 

"  I  know  beforehand  about  what  you  are  going 
to  say,"  he  interjected;  "but  let's  have  your  ver 
sion  of  it." 

"You  shall  have  it  hot  and  hot,"  promised  the 
playwright.  "For  quite  a  little  time,  and  from  a 
purely  literary  point  of  view,  I  have  been  interest 
ing  myself  in  the  curious  psychological  condition 
which  breeds  so  many  accidents  on  this  job  of 
yours.  I  began  with  the  assumption  that  there 
was  a  basis  of  reality.  The  human  mind  isn't 
exactly  creative  in  the  sense  that  it  can  make 
something  out  of  nothing.  You  say,  Mr.  Ballard, 
that  your  workmen  are  superstitious  fools,  and 
that  their  mental  attitude  is  chiefly  responsible 
for  all  the  disasters.  I  say  that  the  fact — the 
cause-fact — existed  before  the  superstition;  was 
the  legitimate  ancestor  of  the  superstition.  Don't 
you  believe  it  ?" 

Ballard  neither  affirmed  nor  denied;  but  Brom 
ley  nodded.  "I've  always  believed  it,"  he  ad 
mitted. 

"There  isn't  the  slightest  doubt  of  the  existence 
of  the  primary  cause-fact;  it  is  a  psychological 

228 


The  Indictment 

axiom  that  it  must  antedate  the  diseased  mental 
condition/'  resumed  the  theorist,  oracularly.  "I 
don't  know  how  far  back  it  can  be  traced,  but 
Engineer  Braithwaite's  drowning  will  serve  for 
our  starting  point.  You  will  say  that  there  was 
nothing  mysterious  about  that;  yet  only  the  other 
day,  Hoskins,  the  locomotive  driver,  said  to  me: 
'They  can  say  what  they  like,  but  /  ain't  believing 
that  the  river  stove  him  all  up  as  if  he'd  been 
stomped  on  in  a  cattle  pen.'  There,  you  see,  you 
have  the  first  gentle  push  over  into  the  field  of  the 
unaccountable." 

It  was  here  that  Ballard  broke  in,  to  begin  the 
fire-fighting. 

"You  are  getting  the  cart  before  the  horse.  It 
is  ten  chances  to  one  that  Hoskins  never  dreamed 
of  being  incredulous  about  the  plain,  unmistakable 
facts  until  after  the  later  happenings  had  given 
him  the  superstitious  twist." 

"The  sequence  in  this  particular  instance  is 
immaterial — quite  immaterial,"  argued  the  play 
wright,  with  obstinate  assurance.  "The  fact  stays 
with  us  that  there  was  something  partly  unaccount 
able  in  this  first  tragedy  to  which  the  thought  of 
Hoskins — the  thoughts  of  all  those  who  knew  the 
circumstances — could  revert." 

"Well?"  said  Ballard. 

"It  is  on  this  hypothesis  that  I  have  constructed 
229 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

my  theory.  Casting  out  all  the  accidents  charge 
able  to  carelessness,  to  disobedience  of  orders,  or  to 
temporary  aberration  on  the  part  of  the  workmen, 
there  still  remains  a  goodly  number  of  them  carry 
ing  this  disturbing  atom  of  mystery.  Take  San 
derson's  case:  he  came  here,  I'm  told,  with  a 
decent  record;  he  was  not  in  any  sense  of  the  words 
a  moral  degenerate.  Yet  in  a  very  short  time  he 
was  killed  in  a  quarrel  over  a  woman  at  whom 
the  average  man  wouldn't  look  twice.  Blacklock, 
here,  has  seen  this  woman;  but  I'd  like  to  ask  if 
either  of  you  two  have  ?"— this  to  Ballard  and  the 
assistant. 

Ballard  shook  his  head,  and  Bromley  confessed 
that  he  had  not. 

"Well,  Jerry  and  I  have  the  advantage  of  you — 
we  have  seen  her,"  said  Wingfield,  scoring  the 
point  with  a  self-satisfied  smile.  "  She  is  a  gray- 
haired  Mexican  crone,  apparently  old  enough,  and 
certainly  hideous  enough,  to  be  the  Mexican  fore 
man's  mother.  I'll  venture  the  assertion  that 
Sanderson  never  thought  of  her  as  a  feminine 
possibility  at  all." 

"Hold  on;  I  shall  be  obliged  to  spoil  your 
theory  there,"  interrupted  Bromley.  "Billy  un 
questionably  put  himself  in  Manuel's  hands.  He 
used  to  go  down  to  the  ranch  two  or  three  times  a 
week,  and  he  spent  money,  a  good  bit  of  it,  on  the 

230 


The  Indictment 

woman.  I  know  it,  because  he  borrowed  from  me. 
And  along  toward  the  last,  he  never  rode  in  that 
direction  without  slinging  his  Winchester  under 
the  stirrup-leather." 

"Looking  for  trouble  with  Manuel,  you  would 
say?"  interjected  Wingfield. 

"No  doubt  of  it.  And  when  the  thing  finally 
came  to  a  focus,  the  Mexican  gave  Billy  a  fair 
show;  there  were  witnesses  to  that  part  of  it. 
Manuel  told  Sanderson  to  take  his  gun,  which  the 
woman  was  trying  to  hide,  get  on  his  horse,  and 
ride  to  the  north  corner  of  the  corral,  where  he  was 
to  wheel  and  begin  shooting — or  be  shot  in  the 
back.  The  programme  was  carried  out  to  the 
letter.  Manuel  walked  his  own  horse  to  the  south 
corner,  and  the  two  men  wheeled  and  began  to 
shoot.  Three  or  four  shots  were  fired  by  each 
before  Billy  was  hit." 

"Um!"  said  the  playwright  thoughtfully.  "There 
were  witnesses,  you  say  ?  Some  of  the  Craigmiles 
cow-boys,  I  suppose.  You  took  their  word  for 
these  little  details  ?" 

Bromley  made  a  sorrowful  face.  "No;  it  was 
Billy's  own  story.  The  poor  fellow  lived  long 
enough  to  tell  me  what  I've  been  passing  on  to 
you.  He  tried  to  tell  me  something  else,  something 
about  Manuel  and  the  woman,  but  there  wasn't 
time  enough." 

231 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

Wingfield  had  found  the  long-stemmed  pipe  and 
was  filling  it  from  the  jar  of  tobacco  on  the  table. 
"Was  that  all?"  he  inquired. 

"All  but  the  finish — which  was  rather  heart 
breaking.  When  he  could  no  longer  speak  he  kept 
pointing  to  me  and  to  his  rifle,  which  had  been 
brought  in  with  him.  I  understood  he  was  trying 
to  tell  me  that  I  should  keep  the  gun." 

"You  did  keep  it?" 

"Yes;    I  have  it  yet." 

"Let  me  have  a  look  at  it,  will  you  ?" 

The  weapon  was  found,  and  Wingfield  exam 
ined  it  curiously.  "Is  it  loaded  ?"  he  asked. 

Bromley  nodded.  "I  guess  it  is.  It  hasn't 
been  out  of  its  case  or  that  cupboard  since  the  day 
of  the  killing." 

The  playwright  worked  the  lever  cautiously, 
and  an  empty  cartridge  shell  flipped  out  and  fell 
to  the  floor.  "William  Sanderson's  last  shot,"  he 
remarked  reflectively,  and  went  on  slowly  pump 
ing  the  lever  until  eleven  loaded  cartridges  lay  in 
an  orderly  row  on  the  table.  "You  were  wrong 
in  your  count  of  the  number  of  shots  fired,  or  else 
the  magazine  was  not  full  when  Sanderson  began," 
he  commented.  Then,  as  Blacklock  was  about  to 
pick  up  one  of  the  cartridges:  "Hold  on,  Jerry; 
don't  disturb  them,  if  you  please." 

Blacklock  laughed  nervously.  "Mr.  Wing- 
232 


The  Indictment 

field's  got  a  notion,"  he  said.  "He's  always  get 
ting  'em." 

"I  have,"  was  the  quiet  reply.  "But  first  let 
me  ask  you,  Bromley:  What  sort  of  a  rifle  marks 
man  was  Sanderson?" 

"One  of  the  best  I  ever  knew.  I  have  seen  him 
drill  a  silver  dollar  three  times  out  of  five  at  a 
hundred  yards  when  he  was  feeling  well.  There 
is  your  element  of  mystery  again:  I  could  never 
understand  how  he  missed  the  Mexican  three  or 
four  times  in  succession  at  less  than  seventy-five 
yards — unless  Manuel's  first  shot  was  the  one 
that  hit  him.  That  might  have  been  it.  Billy 
was  all  sand;  the  kind  of  man  to  go  on  shooting 
after  he  was  killed." 

"My  notion  is  that  he  didn't  have  the  slightest 
chance  in  the  wide  world,"  was  Wingfield's  com 
ment.  "Let  us  prove  or  disprove  it  if  we  can," 
and  he  opened  a  blade  of  his  penknife  and  dug  the 
point  of  it  into  the  bullet  of  the  cartridge  first  ex 
tracted  from  the  dead  man's  gun.  "There  is  my 
notion — and  a  striking  example  of  Mexican  fair 
play,"  he  added,  when  the  bullet,  a  harmless  pellet 
of  white  clay,  carefully  moulded  and  neatly  coated 
with  lead  foil,  fell  apart  under  the  knife-blade. 

The  playwright's  audience  was  interested  now, 
beyond  all  question  of  doubt.  If  Wingfield  had 
suddenly  hypnotised  the  three  who  saw  this  un- 

233 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

expected  confirmation  of  his  theory  of  treachery  in 
the  Sanderson  tragedy,  the  awed  silence  that  fell 
upon  the  little  group  around  the  table  could  not 
have  been  more  profound.  It  was  Bromley  who 
broke  the  spell,  prefacing  his  exclamation  with  a 
mirthless  laugh. 

"Your  gifts  of  deduction  are  almost  uncanny, 
Wingfield,"  he  asserted.  "How  could  you  reason 
your  way  around  to  that  ?"  —pointing  at  the  clay 
bullet. 

"I  didn't,"  was  the  calm  reply.  "Imagination 
can  double  discount  pure  logic  in  the  investigative 
field,  nine  times  out  of  ten.  And  in  this  instance 
it  wasn't  my  imagination:  it  was  another  man's. 
I  once  read  a  story  in  which  the  author  made  his 
villain  kill  a  man  with  this  same  little  trick  of  sham 
bullets.  I  merely  remembered  the  story.  Now  let 
us  see  how  many  more  there  are  to  go  with  this." 

There  were  four  of  the  cartridges  capped  with 
the  dummy  bullets;  the  remaining  seven  being 
genuine.  Wingfield  did  the  sum  arithmetical 
aloud.  "Four  and  five  are  nine,  and  nine  and 
seven  are  sixteen.  Sanderson  started  out  that  day 
with  a  full  magazine,  we'll  assume.  He  fired  five 
of  these  dummies — with  perfect  immunity  for 
Manuel — and  here  are  the  other  four.  If  the 
woman  had  had  a  little  more  time,  when  she  was 
pretending  to  hide  the  gun,  she  would  have 

234 


"There    is    my  notion— and    a    striking    example    of    Mexican 
fair  play  " 


The  Indictment 

pumped  out  all  of  the  good  cartridges.  Being 
somewhat  hurried,  she  exchanged  only  nine,  which, 
in  an  even  game  and  shot  for  shot,  gave  Manuel 
ten  chances  to  Sanderson's  one.  It  was  a  cinch." 

Ballard  sat  back  in  his  chair  handling  the  empty 
rifle.  Bromley's  pallid  face  turned  gray.  The 
tragedy  had  touched  him  very  sharply  at  the  time; 
and  this  new  and  unexpected  evidence  of  gross 
treachery  revived  all  the  horror  of  the  day  when 
Sanderson  had  been  carried  in  and  laid  upon  the 
office  couch  to  die. 

"  Poor  Billy ! ' '  he  said.  "  It  was  a  cold-blooded 
murder,  and  he  knew  it.  That  was  what  he  was 
trying  to  tell  me — and  couldn't." 

"That  was  my  hypothesis  from  the  first,"  Wing- 
field  asserted  promptly.  "  But  the  motive  seemed 
to  be  lacking;  it  still  seems  to  be  lacking.  Have 
either  of  you  two  imagination  enough  to  help  me 
out?" 

"The  motive?"  queried  Bromley.  "Why,  that 
remains  the  same,  doesn't  it  ? — more's  the  pity." 

The  playwright  had  lighted  the  long-stemmed 
pipe,  and  was  thoughtfully  blowing  smoke  rings 
toward  the  new  patch  in  the  bungalow  ceiling. 

"Not  if  my  theory  is  to  stand,  Mr.  Bromley. 
You  see,  I  am  proceeding  confidently  upon  the 
supposition  that  Sanderson  wasn't  messing  in 
Manuel's  domestic  affairs.  I  can't  believe  for  a 

235 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

moment  that  it  was  a  quarrel  over  the  woman, 
with  Manuel's  jealousy  to  account  for  the  killing. 
It's  too  absurdly  preposterous.  Settling  that  fact 
to  my  own  complete  satisfaction,  I  began  to  search 
for  the  real  motive,  and  it  is  for  you  to  say  whether 
I  am  right  or  wrong.  Tell  me:  was  Sanderson 
more  than  casually  interested  in  the  details  of 
Braithwaite's  drowning  ?  That  story  must  have 
been  pretty  fresh  and  raw  in  everybody's  recollec 
tion  at  that  time." 

Bromley's  rejoinder  was  promptly  affirmative. 
"It  was;  and  Sanderson  was  interested.  As 
Braithwaite's  successor,  and  with  the  fight  between 
the  company  and  the  colonel  transferred  to  him, 
he  couldn't  shirk  his  responsibility.  Now  that 
you  recall  it,  I  remember  very  well  that  he  had 
notions  of  his  own  about  Braithwaite's  taking  off. 
He  was  a  quiet  sort;  didn't  talk  much;  but  what 
little  he  did  say  gave  me  to  understand  that  he 
suspected  foul  play  of  some  kind.  And  here's 
your  theory  again,  Mr.  Wingfield:  if  a  hint  of 
what  he  suspected  ever  got  wind  in  the  camp,  it 
would  account  for  the  superstitious  twist  given  to 
the  drowning  by  Hoskins  and  the  others,  wouldn't 
it?" 

Wingfield  smote  the  table  with  his  fist. 

" There  is  your  connecting  link!"  he  exclaimed. 
"We  have  just  proved  beyond  doubt  that  Sander- 

236 


The  Indictment 

son  wasn't  killed  in  a  fair  fight:  he  was  murdered, 
and  the  murder  was  carefully  planned  beforehand. 
By  the  same  token,  Braithwaite  was  murdered, 
too!  Recall  the  circumstances  as  they  have  been 
related  by  the  eye-witnesses:  when  they  found 
the  Government  man  and  took  him  out  of  the 
river,  his  skull  was  crushed  and  both  arms  were 
broken  .  .  .  see  here!"  he  threw  himself  quickly 
into  the  attitude  of  one  fishing  from  a  river- 
bank.  "  Suppose  somebody  creeps  up  behind  me 
with  a  club  raised  to  brain  me:  I  get  a  glimpse  of 
him  or  his  shadow,  dodge,  fling  up  my  arms,  so — 
and  one  good,  smashing  blow  does  the  business. 
That's  all;  or  all  but  one  little  item.  Manuel's 
woman  knows  who  struck  that  blow,  and  Sander 
son  was  trying  to  bribe  her  to  tell." 

If  the  announcement  had  been  an  explosion  to 
rock  the  bungalow  on  its  foundations,  the  effect 
could  scarcely  have  been  more  striking.  Ballard 
flung  the  empty  gun  aside  and  sprang  to  his  feet. 
The  collegian  sat  down  weakly  and  stared.  Brom 
ley's  jaw  dropped,  and  he  glared  across  at  Wing- 
field  as  if  the  clever  deduction  were  a  mortal 
affront  to  be  crammed  down  the  throat  of  its  origi 
nator. 

The  playwright's  smile  was  the  eye-wrinkling 
of  one  who  prides  himself  upon  the  ability  to  keep 
his  head  when  others  are  panic-stricken. 

237 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

"Seems  to  knock  you  fellows  all  in  a  heap,"  he 
remarked,  calmly.  "What  have  you  been  doing 
all  these  months  that  you  haven't  dug  it  out  for 
yourselves  ?" 

Bromley  was  moistening  his  lips. 

"Go  on,  Mr.  Wingfield,  if  you  please.  Tell  us 
all  you  know — or  think  you  know." 

" There  is  more;  a  good  bit  more,"  was  the  cool 
reply.  'Three  months  ago  you  had  a  train  wreck 
on  the  railroad — two  men  killed.  'Rough  track/ 
was  the  cause  assigned,  Mr.  Bromley;  but  that 
was  one  time  when  your  cautious  chief,  Macpher- 
son,  fell  down.  The  two  surviving  trainmen, 
questioned  separately  by  me  within  the  past  week, 
both  say  that  there  were  at  least  inferential  proofs 
of  pulled  spikes  and  a  loosened  rail.  A  little  later 
one  man  was  killed  and  two  were  crippled  by  the 
premature  explosion  of  a  charge  of  dynamite  in 
the  quarry.  Carelessness,  this  time,  on  the  part 
of  the  men  involved;  and  you  said  it,  Mr.  Bromley. 
It  was  nothing  of  the  kind.  Some  one  had  sub 
stituted  a  coil  of  quick-firing  fuse  for  the  ordinary 
slow-match  the  men  had  been  using,  and  the  thing 
went  off  before  the  cry  of  'fire'  could  be  given. 
How  do  I  know?" 

"  Yes;  how  do  you  know  ?"  demanded  Bromley. 

"By  a  mere  fluke,  and  not  by  any  process  of 
deduction,  in  this  instance,  as  it  happens.  One 

238 


The  Indictment 

of  the  survivors  was  crafty  enough  to  steal  the  coil 
of  substituted  fuse,  having  some  vague  notion  of 
suing  the  company  for  damages  for  supplying  poor 
material.  Like  other  men  of  his  class,  he  gave  up 
the  notion  when  he  got  well  of  his  injuries;  but  it 
was  revived  again  the  other  day  when  one  of  his 
comrades  told  him  I  was  a  lawyer.  He  made  a 
date  with  me,  told  me  his  tale,  and  showed  me  the 
carefully  preserved  coil  of  bad  fuse.  I  cut  off  a 
bit  of  it  and  did  a  little  experimenting.  Look  at 
this."  He  took  a  piece  of  fuse  from  his  pocket, 
uncoiled  it  upon  the  table,  and  applied  a  match. 
It  went  off  like  a  flash  of  dry  gunpowder,  burning 
through  from  end  to  end  in  a  fraction  of  a  second. 

"Go  on,"  said  Ballard,  speaking  for  the  first 
time  since  the  playwright  had  begun  his  unravelling 
of  the  tangled  threads  of  disaster. 

"We  dismiss  the  quarry  catastrophe  and  come 
to  the  fall  of  a  great  boulder  from  the  hill-crags  on 
the  farther  side  of  the  river  some  two  weeks  later. 
This  heaven-sent  projectile  smashed  into  the  dam 
structure,  broke  out  a  chunk  of  the  completed 
masonry,  killed  two  men  outright  and  injured  half 
a  dozen  others — correct  me  if  I  distort  the  details, 
Mr.  Bromley.  This  time  there  was  no  investiga 
tion  worthy  of  the  name,  if  I  have  gathered  my 
information  carefully  enough.  Other  rocks  had 
fallen  from  the  same  slope;  and  after  Fitzpatrick 

239 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

had  assured  himself  that  there  were  no  more  likely 
to  fall,  the  matter  was  charged  off  to  the  accident 
account.  If  you  and  Michael  Fitzpatrick  had 
been  the  typical  coroner's  jury,  Mr.  Bromley,  you 
couldn't  have  been  more  easily  satisfied  with 
purely  inferential  evidence.  I  wasn't  satisfied 
until  I  had  climbed  painfully  to  the  almost  in 
accessible  ledge  from  which  the  boulder  had  fallen. 
Once  there,  however,  the  'act  of  God'  became  very 
plainly  the  act  of  man.  The  'heel'  used  as  a  ful 
crum  in  levering  the  rock  from  the  ledge  was  still 
in  place;  and  the  man  in  the  case,  in  his  haste  or 
in  his  indifference  to  discovery,  had  left  the  iron 
crowbar  with  which  he  had  pried  the  stone  from 
its  bed.  The  crowbar  is  still  there." 

"Is  that  all?"  asked  Bromley,  wetting  his  lips 
again. 

"  By  no  manner  of  means,"  was  the  equable  re 
joinder.  "I  could  go  on  indefinitely.  The  falling 
derrick  may  or  may  not  have  been  aimed  specially 
at  Macpherson;  but  it  committed  premeditated 
murder,  just  the  same — the  broken  guy  cable  was 
rotted  in  two  with  acid.  Again  you  will  demand 
to  know  how  I  know.  I  satisfied  myself  by  mak 
ing  a  few  simple  tests  on  the  broken  ends  with 
chemicals  filched  out  of  Colonel  Craigmiles's 
laboratory  up  yonder  in  the  second  story  of  his 
electric  plant.  No;  I'm  no  chemist.  But  you 

240 


The  Indictment 

will  find,  when  you  come  to  write  stones  and 
plays,  that  a  smattering  knowledge  of  every  man's 
trade  comes  in  handy.  Otherwise  you'll  be  writ 
ing  yourself  down  as  a  blundering  ass  in  every 
second  paragraph." 

Wingfield  paused,  but  it  was  only  to  relight  his 
pipe.  When  the  tobacco  was  burning  again  he 
went  on,  in  the  same  even  tone. 

"The  falling  derrick  brings  us  down  to  your 
regime,  Mr.  Ballard.  I  pass  by  the  incident  of  the 
hurled  stone  that  made  that  awkward  patch  neces 
sary  in  your  ceiling:  you  yourself  have  admitted 
that  the  stone  could  not  have  come  from  the  blast 
ing  in  the  quarry.  But  there  was  another  railroad 
accident  which  deserves  mention.  No  doubt  Hos- 
kins  has  told  you  what  he  saw  almost  on  the  very 
spot  where  Braithwaite's  snuffing-out  occurred.  He 
thought  it  was  Braithwaite's  ghost — he  still  thinks 
so.  But  we  are  less  credulous;  or,  at  least,  I  was. 
Like  Sanderson,  I  have  been  making  friends — or 
enemies — at  the  Craigmiles  cattle  ranch.  In  fact, 
I  was  down  there  the  day  following  Hoskins's  mis 
fortune.  Curiously  enough,  there  was  another 
man  who  saw  the  Braithwaite  ghost — one  l  Scotty,' 
a  cow-boy.  He  was  night-herding  on  the  ranch 
bunch  of  beef  cattle  on  the  night  of  the  accident, 
and  he  saw  the  ghost,  leather  leggings,  Norfolk 
shooting-jacket,  and  double-visored  British  cap 

241 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

all  complete,  riding  a  horse  down  to  the  river  a 
little  while  before  the  train  came  around  the  curve. 
And  after  the  hullabaloo,  he  saw  it  again,  riding 
quietly  back  to  the  ranch." 

Bromley  was  gripping  the  edge  of  the  table  and 
exchanging  glances  with  Ballard.  It  was  the  Ken- 
tuckian  who  broke  the  silence  which  fell  upon  the 
group  around  the  table  when  the  playwright  made 
an  end. 

"Summing  it  all  up,  what  is  your  conclusion, 
Wingfield  ?  You  have  reached  one  long  before 
this,  I  take  it." 

The  amateur  Vidocq  made  a  slow  sign  of  assent. 

"As  I  have  told  you,  I  went  into  this  thing  out 
of  sheer  curiosity,  and  partly  because  there  were 
obstructions  put  in  my  way.  That's  human  na 
ture.  But  afterward  it  laid  hold  of  me  and  held 
me  by  its  own  grip.  I'm  not  sure  that  there  have 
been  any  simon-pure  accidents  at  all.  So  far  as  I 
have  gone,  everything  that  has  happened  has  been 
made  to  happen;  has  been  carefully  planned  and 
prepared  for  in  advance  by  some  one  of  more  than 
ordinary  intelligence — and  vindictiveness.  And, 
unhappily,  the  motive  is  only  too  painfully  appa 
rent.  The  work  on  this  irrigation  project  of 
yours  is  to  be  hampered  and  delayed  by  all  pos 
sible  means,  even  to  the  sacrificing  of  human 
life." 

242 


The  Indictment 

Again  there  was  a  silence  in  the  thick-walled 
office  room;  a  silence  so  strained  that  the  clickings 
of  the  stone  hammers  in  the  yard  and  the  rasping 
cacophonies  of  the  hoisting  engines  at  the  dam 
seemed  far  removed.  It  was  Bromley  who  spoke 
first,  and  his  question  was  pointedly  suggestive. 

"You  haven't  stopped  with  the  broad  generalisa 
tion,  Mr.  Wingfield?" 

"Meaning  that  I  have  found  the  man  who  is 
responsible  for  all  these  desperate  and  deadly 
doings  ?  I  am  afraid  I  have.  There  would  seem 
to  be  only  one  man  in  the  world  whose  personal 
interests  are  at  stake.  Naturally,  I  haven't  gone 
very  deeply  into  that  part  of  it.  But  didn't  some 
body  tell  me  there  is  a  fight  on  in  the  courts  be 
tween  the  Arcadia  Company  and  Colonel  Craig- 
miles  ? — a  fight  in  which  delay  is  the  one  thing 
needful  for  the. colonel  ?" 

Ballard  came  back  to  the  table  and  stood  within 
arm's-reach  of  the  speaker.  His  square  jaw  had 
taken  on  the  fighting  angle,  and  his  eyes  were  cold 
and  hard. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it,  Mr.  Wing- 
field  ?  Have  you  arrived  at  that  conclusion, 
also  ?" 

Wingfield's  doubtful  glance  was  in  young  Black- 
lock's  direction,  and  his  reply  was  evasive. 

"That  is  a  very  natural  question;    but  doesn't 

243 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

it  strike  you,  Mr.  Ballard,  that  this  is  hardly  the 
time  or  place  to  go  into  it  ?" 

"No." 

"Very  well  .  .  .  Jerry,  what  we  are  talk 
ing  about  now  is  strictly  between  gentlemen:  do 
you  understand?" 

"Sure  thing,"  said  the  collegian. 

"You  ask  me  what  I  am  going  to  do,  Mr.  Bal 
lard;  and  in  return  I'll  ask  you  to  put  yourself  in 
my  place.  Clearly,  it  is  a  law-abiding  citizen's 
plain  duty  to  go  and  lay  the  bald  facts  before  the 
nearest  prosecuting  attorney  and  let  the  law  take 
its  course.  On  the  other  hand,  I'm  only  a  man 
like  other  men,  and— 

"And  you  are  Colonel  Craigmiles's  guest.  Go 
on,"  said  Ballard,  straightening  the  path  of  hesita 
tion  for  him. 

"That's  it,"  nodded  Wingfield.  "As  you  say, 
I  am  his  guest;  and — er — well,  there  is  another 
reason  why  I  should  be  the  last  person  in  the  world 
to  make  or  meddle.  At  first,  I  was  brashly  in 
credulous,  as  anyone  would  be  who  was  mixing  and 
mingling  with  the  colonel  in  the  daily  amenities. 
Later,  when  the  ugly  fact  persisted  and  I  was 
obliged  to  admit  it,  the  personal  factor  entered  the 
equation.  It's  bad  medicine,  any  way  you  decide 
to  take  it." 

"Still  you  are  not  telling  us  what  you  mean  to 
244 


The  Indictment 

do,    Mr.    Wingfield,"     Bromley    reminded    him 
gently. 

"No;  but  I  don't  mind  telling  you.  I  have 
about  decided  upon  a  weak  sort  of  compromise. 
This  thing  will  come  out — it's  bound  to  come  out 
in  the  pretty  immediate  hence;  and  I  don't  want 
to  be  here  when  the  sheriff  arrives.  I  think  I 
shall  have  a  very  urgent  call  to  go  back  to  New 
York." 

Bromley  laid  hold  of  the  table  and  pulled  him 
self  to  his  feet;  but  it  was  Ballard  who  said,  slowly, 
as  one  who  weighs  his  words  and  the  full  import 
of  them:  "Mr.  Wingfield,  you  are  more  different 
kinds  of  an  ass  than  I  took  you  to  be,  and  that  is 
saying  a  great  deal.  Out  of  a  mass  of  hearsay, 
the  idle  stories  of  a  lot  of  workmen  whose  idea  of 
humour  has  been  to  make  a  butt  of  you,  you  have 
built  up  this  fantastic  fairy  tale.  I  am  charitable 
enough  to  believe  that  you  couldn't  help  it;  it  is 
a  part  of  your  equipment  as  a  professional  maker  of 
fairy  tales.  But  there  are  two  things  for  which  I 
shall  take  it  upon  myself  to  answer  personally. 
You  will  not  leave  Castle  'Cadia  until  your  time  is 
out;  and  you'll  not  leave  this  room  until  you  have 
promised  the  three  of  us  that  this  cock-and-bull 
story  of  yours  stops  right  here  with  its  first  telling." 

"That's  so,"  added  Bromley,  with  a  quiet  men 
ace  in  his  tone. 

245 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

It  was  the  playwright's  turn  to  gasp,  and  he  did 
it,  very  realistically. 

"You — you  don't  believe  it?  with  all  the  three- 
sheet-poster  evidence  staring  you  in  the  face  ? 
Why,  great  Joash !  you  must  be  stark,  staring  mad 
—both  of  you ! "  he  raved.  And  then  to  Blacklock : 
"Are  you  in  it,  too,  Jerry?" 

"I  guess  I  am,"  returned  the  collegian,  meaning 
no  more  than  that  he  felt  constrained  to  stand  with 
the  men  of  his  chosen  profession. 

Wingfield  drew  a  long  breath  and  with  it  re 
gained  the  impersonal  heights  of  the  unemotional 
observer.  "Of  course,  it  is  just  as  you  please," 
he  said,  carelessly.  "I  had  a  foolish  notion  I  was 
doing  you  two  a  good  turn;  but  if  you  choose  to 
take  the  other  view  of  it — well,  there  is  no  account 
ing  for  tastes.  Drink  your  own  liquor  and  give 
the  house  a  good  name.  I'll  dig  up  my  day-pay 
later  on:  it's  cracking  good  material,  you  know." 

"That  is  another  thing,"  Ballard  went  on,  still 
more  decisively.  "If  you  ever  put  pen  to  paper 
with  these  crazy  theories  of  yours  for  a  basis,  I 
shall  make  it  my  business  to  hunt  you  down  as  I 
would  a  wild  beast." 

"So  shall  I,"  echoed  Bromley. 

Wingfield  rose  and  put  the  long-stemmed  pipe 
carefully  aside. 

"You  are  a  precious  pair  of  bally  idiots,"  he  re- 
246 


The  Indictment 

marked,  quite  without  heat.  Then  he  looked  at 
his  watch  and  spoke  pointedly  to  Blacklock. 
"  You're  forgetting  Miss  Elsa's  fishing  party  to  the 
upper  canyon,  aren't  you  ?  Suppose  we  drive 
around  to  Castle  'Cadia  in  the  car.  You  can  send 
Otto  back  after  Mr.  Bromley  later  on."  And 
young  Blacklock  was  so  blankly  dazed  by  the  cool 
impudence  of  the  suggestion  that  he  consented  and 
left  the  bungalow  with  the  playwright. 

For  some  little  time  after  the  stuttering  purr  of 
the  motor-car  had  died  away  the  two  men  sat  as 
Wingfield  had  left  them,  each  busy  with  his  own 
thoughts.  Bromley  was  absently  fingering  the 
cartridges  from  Sanderson's  rifle,  mute  proofs  of 
the  truth  of  the  playwright's  theories,  and  Ballard 
seemed  to  have  forgotten  that  he  had  promised 
Fitzpatrick  to  run  a  line  for  an  additional  side 
track  in  the  railroad  yard. 

"Do  you  blame  me,  Loudon?"  he  asked,  after 
the  silence  had  wrought  its  perfect  work. 

"No;  there  was  nothing  else  to  do.  But  I 
couldn't  help  being  sorry  for  him." 

"So  was  I,"  was  the  instant  rejoinder.  "Wing- 
field  is  all  kinds  of  a  decent  fellow;  and  the  way 
he  has  untangled  the  thing  is  nothing  short  of 
masterly.  But  I  had  to  tie  his  tongue;  you  know 
I  had  to  do  that,  Loudon." 

"Of  course,  you  had  to." 
247 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

Silence  again  for  a  little  space;    and  then: 

"There  is  no  doubt  in  your  mind  that  he  has 
hit  upon  the  true  solution  of  all  the  little  mys 
teries  ?" 

Bromley  shook  his  head  slowly.  "None  at  all, 
I  am  sorry  to  say.  I  have  suspected  it,  in  part,  at 
least,  for  a  good  while.  And  I  had  proof  positive 
before  Wingfield  gave  it  to  us." 

"How?"  queried  Ballard. 

Bromley  was  still  fingering  the  cartridges.  "I 
hate  to  tell  you,  Breckenridge.  And  yet  you  ought 
to  know,"  he  added.  "It  concerns  you  vitally." 

Ballard's  smile  was  patient.  "I  am  well  past 
the  shocking  point,"  he  averred.  "After  what  we 
have  pulled  through  in  the  last  hour  we  may  as 
well  make  a  clean  sweep  of  it." 

"Well,  then;  I  didn't  stumble  over  the  canyon 
cliff  that  night  four  weeks  ago:  I  was  knocked 


over." 


"What!" 

"It's  true." 

"And  you  know  who  did  it?" 

"  I  can  make  a  pretty  good  guess.  While  I  was 
down  at  the  wing  dam  a  man  passed  me,  coming 
from  the  direction  of  the  great  house.  He  was  a 
big  man,  and  he  was  muffled  to  the  ears  in  a 
rain-coat.  I  know,  because  I  heard  the  peculiar 
'mackintosh'  rustle  as  he  went  by  me.  I  knew 

248 


The  Indictment 

then  who  it  was;  would  have  known  even  if  I 
hadn't  had  a  glimpse  of  his  face  at  the  passing 
instant.  It  is  one  of  the  colonel's  eccentricities 
never  to  go  out  after  nightfall — in  a  bone-dry 
country,  mind  you — without  wearing  a  rain-coat." 

"Well?"  said  Ballard. 

"He  didn't  see  me,  though  I  thought  at  first  that 
he  did;  he  kept  looking  back  as  if  he  were  expect 
ing  somebody  to  follow  him.  He  took  the  path  on 
our  side  of  the  canyon — the  one  I  took  a  few 
minutes  later.  That's  all;  except  that  I  would 
swear  that  I  heard  the  'slither'  of  a  mackintosh 
just  as  the  blow  fell  that  knocked  me  down  and 


out." 


"Heavens,  Loudon!  It's  too  grossly  unbeliev 
able!  Why,  man,  he  saved  your  life  after  the  fact, 
risking  his  own  in  a  mad  drive  down  here  from 
Castle  'Cadia  in  the  car  to  do  it!  You  wouldn't 
have  lived  until  morning  if  he  hadn't  come." 

"It  is  unbelievable,  as  you  say;  and  yet  it  isn't, 
when  you  have  surrounded  all  the  facts.  What  is 
the  reason,  the  only  reason,  why  Colonel  Craig- 
miles  should  resort  to  all  these  desperate  expe 
dients?" 

"Delay,  of  course;  time  to  get  his  legal  fight 
shaped  up  in  the  courts." 

"Exactly.  If  he  can  hold  us  back  long  enough, 
the  dam  will  never  be  completed.  He  knows  this, 

249 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

and  Mr.  Pelham  knows  it,  too.  Unhappily  for 
us,  the  colonel  has  found  a  way  to  ensure  the  de 
lay.  The  work  can't  go  on  without  a  chief  of 


construction." 


"But,  good  Lord,  Loudon,  you're  not  the  'Big 
Boss';  and,  besides,  the  man  loves  you  like  a  son! 
Why  should  he  try  to  kill  you  one  minute  and  move 
heaven  and  earth  to  save  your  life  the  next?" 

Bromley  shook  his  head  sorrowfully. 

"That  is  what  made  me  say  what  I  did  about 
not  wanting  to  tell  you,  Breckenridge.  That 
crack  over  the  head  wasn't  meant  for  me;  it  was 
meant  for  you.  If  it  had  not  been  so  dark  under 
the  hill  that  night — but  it  was;  pocket-dark  in  the 
shadow  of  the  pines.  And  he  knew  you'd  be  com 
ing  along  that  path  on  your  way  back  to  camp — 
knew  you'd  be  coming,  and  wasn't  expecting  any 
body  else.  Don't  you  see?" 

Ballard  jumped  up  and  began  to  pace  the  floor. 

"My  God!"  he  ejaculated;  "I  was  his  guest; 
I  had  just  broken  bread  at  his  table!  Bromley, 
when  he  went  out  to  lie  in  wait  for  me,  he  left  me 
talking  with  his  daughter!  It's  too  horrible!" 

Bromley  had  stood  the  eleven  cartridges,  false 
and  true,  in  a  curving  row  on  the  table.  The 
crooking  line  took  the  shape  of  a  huge  interroga 
tion  point. 

"Wingfield  thought  he  had  solved  all  the  mys- 
250 


The  Indictment 

teries,  but  the  darkest  of  them  remains  untouched," 
he  commented.  "How  can  the  genial,  kindly, 
magnanimous  man  we  know,  or  think  we  know> 
be  such  a  fiend  incarnate?"  Then  he  broke 
ground  again  in  the  old  field.  "Will  you  do  now 
what  I  begged  you  to  do  at  first  ? — throw  up  this 
cursed  job  and  go  away?" 

Ballard  stopped  short  in  his  tramping  and  his 
answer  was  an  explosive  "No!" 

"That  is  half  righteous  anger,  and  half  some 
thing  else.  What  is  the  .other  half,  Brecken- 
ridge?"  And  when  Ballard  did  not  define  it: 
"  I  can  guess  it;  it  is  the  same  thing  that  made  you 
stuff  Wingfield's  theories  down  his  throat  a  few 
minutes  ago.  You  are  sorry  for  the  daughter." 

Through  the  open  door  Ballard  saw  Fitzpatrick 
coming  across  the  stone  yard. 

"You've  guessed  it,  Loudon;  or  rather,  I  think 
you  have  known  it  all  along.  I  love  Elsa  Craig- 
miles;  I  loved  her  long  before  I  ever  heard  of 
Arcadia  or  its  king.  Now  you  know  why  Wing- 
field  mustn't  be  allowed  to  talk;  why  I  mustn't  go 
away  and  give  place  to  a  new  chief  who  might  live 
to  see  Elsa's  father  hanged.  She  must  be  spared 
and  defended  at  any  cost.  One  other  word  be 
fore  Fitzpatrick  cuts  in:  When  my  time  comes,  if 
it  does  come,  you  and  one  other  man  will  know 
how  I  passed  out  and  why.  I  want  your  promise 

251 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

that  you'll  keep  still,  and  that  you  will  keep  Wing- 
field  still.  Blacklock  doesn't  count." 

"Sure,"  said  Bromley,  quietly;  and  then,  with 
the  big  Irish  contractor's  shadow  fairly  darkening 
the  door:  "You'll  do  the  same  for  me,  Brecken- 
ridge,  won't  you  ?  Because — oh,  confound  it  all ! 
—I'm  in  the  same  boat  with  you;  without  a  ghost 
of  a  show,  you  understand." 

Ballard  put  his  back  squarely  to  Michael  Fitz- 
patrick  scraping  his  feet  on  the  puncheon-floored 
porch  of  the  bungalow,  and  gripped  Bromley's 
hand  across  the  table. 

"It's  a  bargain,"  he  declared  warmly.  "We'll 
take  the  long  chance  and  stand  by  her  together, 
old  man.  And  if  she  chooses  the  better  part  in  the 
end,  I'll  try  not  to  act  like  a  jealous  fool.  Now 
you  turn  in  and  lie  down  a  while.  I've  got  to  go 
with  Michael." 

This  time  it  was  Bromley  who  saved  the  situa 
tion.  "What  a  pair  of  luminous  donkeys  we  are!" 
he  laughed.  "She  calls  you  'dear  friend,'  and  me 
'little  brother.'  If  we're  right  good  and  tractable, 
we  may  get  cards  to  her  wedding — with  Wing- 
field." 


252 


XIX 
IN  THE  LABORATORY 

BALLARD  had  a  small  shock  while  he  was 
crossing  the  stone  yard  with  Fitzpatrick.     It 
turned  upon  the  sight  of  the  handsome  figure  of 
the   Craigmiles   ranch   foreman   calmly   rolling  a 
cigarette  in  the  shade  of  one  of  the  cutting  sheds. 

"What  is  the  Mexican  doing  here?"  he  de 
manded  abruptly  of  Fitzpatrick;  and  the  Irish 
man's  manner  was  far  from  reassuring. 

"Tis  you  he'll  be  wanting  to  see,  I'm  thinking. 
He's  been  hanging  'round  the  office  f'r  the  betther 
part  of  an  hour.  Shall  I  run  him  off  the  riserva- 
tion?" 

"Around  the  office,  you  say  ?"  Ballard  cut  him 
self  instantly  out  of  the  contractor's  company  and 
crossed  briskly  to  the  shed  where  the  Mexican  was 
lounging.  "You  are*waiting  to  see  me  ?"  he  asked 
shortly,  ignoring  the  foreman's  courtly  bow  and 
sombrero-sweep. 

"  I  wait  to  h-ask  for  the  'ealth  of  Senor  Bromley. 
It  is  report'  to  me  that  he  is  recover  from  hees  so- 
bad  h-accident." 

253 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

"Mr.  Bromley  is  getting  along  all  right.  Is 
that  all?" 

The  Mexican  bowed  again. 

"I  bring-a  da  message  from  the  Senorita  to  da 
Serior  WingfieP.  He  is  som'where  on  da  camp  ?" 

"No;  he  has  gone  back  to  the  upper  valley. 
You  have  been  waiting  some  time  ?  You  must 
have  seen  him  go/' 

For  the  third  time  the  Mexican  removed  his  hat. 
"I'll  have  been  here  one,  two,  t'ree  little  minute, 
Senor  Ballar',"  he  lied  smoothly.  "And  now  I  make 
to  myself  the  honour  of  saying  to  you,  Adios." 

Ballard  let  him  go  because  there  was  nothing 
else  to  do.  His  presence  in  the  construction  camp, 
and  the  ready  lie  about  the  length  of  his  stay,  were 
both  sufficiently  ominous.  What  if  he  had  over 
heard  the  talk  in  the  office  ?  It  was  easily  possible 
that  he  had.  The  windows  were  open,  and  the 
adobe  was  only  a  few  steps  withdrawn  from  the 
busy  cutting  yard.  The  eavesdropper  might  have 
sat  unremarked  upon  the  office  porch,  if  he  had 
cared  to. 

The  Kentuckian  was  deep  in  the  labyrinth  of 
reflection  when  he  rejoined  Fitzpatrick;  and  the 
laying-out  of  the  new  side-track  afterward  w^as 
purely  mechanical.  When  the  work  was  done, 
Ballard  returned  to  the  bungalow,  to  find  Bromley 
sleeping  the  sleep  of  pure  exhaustion  on  the  blan- 

254 


In  the  Laboratory 

ket-covered  couch.  Obeying  a  sudden  impulse, 
the  Kentuckian  took  a  field-glass  from  its  case  on 
the  wall,  and  went  out,  tip-toeing  to  avoid  waking 
Bromley.  If  Manuel  had  overheard,  it  was  com 
paratively  easy  to  prefigure  his  next  step. 

"Which  way  did  the  Mexican  go?"  Ballard 
asked  of  a  cutter  in  the  stone-yard. 

"The  last  I  saw  of  him  he  was  loungin'  off  tow 
ards'  the  Elbow.  That  was  just  after  you  was 
talkin'  to  him,"  said  the  man,  lifting  his  cap  to 
scratch  his  head  with  one  finger. 

"Did  he  come  here  horseback?" 

"Not  up  here  on  the  mesa.  Might  V  left  his 
nag  down  below;  but  he  wa'n't  headin'  that  way 
when  I  saw  him." 

Ballard  turned  away  and  climbed  the  hill  in  the 
rear  of  the  bungalow;  the  hill  from  which  the 
table-smashing  rock  had  been  hurled.  From  its 
crest  there  was  a  comprehensive  view  of  the  upper 
valley,  with  the  river  winding  through  it,  with 
Castle  'Cadia  crowning  the  island-like  knoll  in  its 
centre,  with  the  densely  forested  background  range 
billowing  green  and  grey  in  the  afternoon  sunlight. 

Throwing  himself  flat  on  the  brown  hilltop, 
Ballard  trained  his  glass  first  on  the  inner  valley 
reaches  of  a  bridle-path  leading  over  the  southern 
hogback.  There  was  no  living  thing  in  sight  in 
that  field,  though  sufficient  time  had  elapsed  to 

255 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

enable  the  Mexican  to  ride  across  the  bridge  and 
over  the  hills,  if  he  had  left  the  camp  mounted. 

The  engineer  frowned  and  slipped  easily  into 
the  out-of-door  man's  habit  of  thinking  aloud. 

"It  was  a  bare  chance,  of  course.  If  he  had 
news  to  carry  to  his  master,  he  would  save  time  by 
walking  one  mile  as  against  riding  four.  Hello!" 

The  exclamation  emphasised  a  small  discovery. 
From  the  hilltop  the  entrance  to  the  colonel's 
mysterious  mine  was  in  plain  view,  and  for  the 
first  time  in  Ballard's  observings  of  it  the  massive, 
iron-bound  door  was  open.  Bringing  the  glass  to 
bear  on  the  tunnel-mouth  square  of  shadow,  Bal- 
lard  made  out  the  figures  of  two  men  standing 
just  within  the  entrance  and  far  enough  with 
drawn  to  be  hidden  from  prying  eyes  on  the  camp 
plateau.  With  the  help  of  the  glass,  the  young 
engineer  could  distinguish  the  shape  of  a  huge 
white  sombrero,  and  under  the  sombrero  the  red 
spark  of  a  cigarette.  Wherefore  he  rolled  quickly 
to  a  less  exposed  position  and  awaited  develop 
ments. 

The  suspense  was  short.  In  a  few  minutes  the 
Mexican  foreman  emerged  from  the  gloom  of  the 
mine-mouth,  and  with  a  single  swift  backward 
glance  for  the  industries  at  the  canyon  portal, 
walked  rapidly  up  the  path  toward  the  inner 
valley.  Ballard  sat  up  and  trained  the  field-glass 

256 


In  the  Laboratory 

again.  Why  had  Manuel  gone  out  of  his  way  to 
stop  at  the  mine  ?  The  answer,  or  at  least  one 
possible  answer,  was  under  the  foreman's  arm, 
taking  the  shape  of  a  short-barrelled  rifle  of  the 
type  carried  by  express  messengers  on  Western 
railways. 

Ballard  screwed  the  glass  into  its  smallest  com 
pass,  dropped  it  into  his  pocket,  and  made  his  way 
down  to  the  camp  mesa.  The  gun  meant  nothing 
more  than  that  the  Mexican  had  not  deemed  it 
advisable  to  appear  in  the  construction  camp 
armed.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  Ballard  was  fully 
convinced  that  he  was  on  his  way  to  Colonel  Craig- 
miles  as  the  bearer  of  news. 

It  was  an  hour  later  when  Otto,  the  colonel's 
chauffeur,  kicked  out  the  clutch  of  the  buzzing  run 
about  before  the  door  of  the  office  bungalow  and 
announced  that  he  had  come  to  take  the  con 
valescent  back  to  Castle  'Cadia.  Bromley  was 
still  asleep;  hence  there  had  been  no  opportunity 
for  a  joint  discussion  of  the  latest  development  in 
the  little  war.  But  when  Ballard*  was  helping  him 
into  the  mechanician's  seat,  and  Otto  had  gone 
for  a  bucket  of  water  to  cool  the  hissing  radiator, 
there  was  time  for  a  hurried  word  or  two. 

"  More  trouble,  Loudon — it  turned  up  while  you 
were  asleep.  Manuel  was  here,  in  the  camp, 
while  we  were  hammering  it  out  with  Wingfield. 

257 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

It  is  measurably  certain  that  he  overheard  all  or 
part  of  the  talk.  What  he  knows,  the  colonel 
doubtless  knows,  too,  by  this  time,  and— 

"Oh,  good  Lord!"  groaned  Bromley.  "It  was 
bad  enough  as  it  stood,  but  this  drags  Wingfield 
into  it,  neck  and  heels !  What  will  they  do  to  him  ? " 

Ballard  knitted  his  brows.  "As  Manuel  could 
very  easily  make  it  appear  in  his  tale-bearing, 
anything  that  might  happen  to  Wingfield  would 
be  a  pretty  clear  case  of  self-defence  for  Colonel 
Craigmiles.  Wingfield  knows  too  much/' 

"A  great  deal  too  much.  If  I  dared  say  ten 
words  to  Elsa— 

"No,"  Ballard  objected;  "she  is  the  one  person 
to  be  shielded  and  spared.  It's  up  to  us  to  get 
Wingfield  away  from  Castle  'Cadia  and  out  of  the 
country — before  anything  does  happen  to  him." 

"If  I  were  only  half  a  man  again!"  Bromley 
lamented.  "But  I  know  just  how  it  will  be;  I 
sha'n't  have  a  shadow  of  chance  at  Wingfield  this 
evening.  As  soon  as  I  show  up,  Miss  Caufrrey 
and  the  others  will  scold  me  for  overstaying  my 
leave,  and  chase  me  off  to  bed."  • 

" That's  so;  and  it's  right,"  mused  Ballard. 
:i  You've  no  business  to  be  out  of  bed  this  minute; 
you're  not  fit  to  be  facing  a  ten-mile  drive  in  this 
jig-wagon.  By  Jove:  that's  our  way  out  of  it! 
You  climb  down  and  let  me  go  in  your  place.  I'll 

258  ' 


In  the  Laboratory 

tell  them  we  let  you  overdo  yourself;  that  you 
were  too  tired  to  stand  the  motor  trip — which  is 
the  fact,  if  you'd  only  admit  it.  That  will  give  me 
a  chance  at  Wingfield;  the  chance  you  wouldn't 
have  if  you  were  to  go.  What  do  you  say  ?" 

"I've  already  said  it,"  was  the  convalescent's 
reply;  and  he  let  Ballard  help  him  out  of  the 
mechanic's  seat  and  into  the  bungalow. 

This  is  how  it  chanced  that  the  chauffeur, coming 
back  from  Garou's  kitchen  barrel  with  the  second 
bucket  of  water,  found  his  fares  changed  and  the 
chief  engineer  waiting  to  be  his  passenger  over  the 
ten  miles  of  roundabout  road.  It  was  all  one  to 
the  Berliner.  He  listened  to  Ballard's  brief  ex 
planation  with  true  German  impassiveness,  cranked 
the  motor,  pulled  himself  in  behind  the  pilot- 
wheel,  and  sent  the  little  car  bounding  down  the 
mesa  hill  to  the  Boiling  Water  bridge  what  time 
the  hoister  whistles  were  blowing  the  six-o'clock 
quitting  signal.  The  Kentuckian  looked  at  his 
watch  mechanically,  as  one  will  at  some  familiar 
reminder  of  the  time.  Seven  o'clock  was  the 
Castle  'Cadia  dinner  hour:  thirty  minutes  should 
suffice  for  the  covering  of  the  ten  miles  of  country 
road,  and  with  the  fates  propitious  there  would  be 
an  empty  half-hour  for  the  cajoling  or  compelling 
of  Wingfield,  imperilled  in  his  character  of  over- 
curious  delver  into  other  people's  affairs. 

259 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

So  ran  the  reasonable  prefiguring;  but  plans  and 
prefigurings  based  upon  the  performance  of  a 
gasolene  motor  call  for  a  generous  factor  of  safety. 
Five  miles  from  a  tool-box  in  either  direction,  the 
engines  of  the  runabout  set  up  an  ominous  knock 
ing.  A  stop  was  made,  and  Ballard  filled  and 
lighted  his  pipe  while  the  chauffeur  opened  the 
bonnet  and  tapped  and  pried  and  screwed  and  ad 
justed.  Ten  minutes  were  lost  in  the  testing  and 
trying,  and  then  the  German  named  the  trouble, 
with  an  emphatic  " Himrnel!"  for  a  foreword.  A 
broken  bolt-head  had  dropped  into  the  crank- 
case,  and  it  would  be  necessary  to  take  the  engines 
to  pieces  to  get  it  out. 

Ballard  consulted  his  watch  again.  It  lacked 
only  a  quarter  of  an  hour  of  the  Castle  'Cadia 
dinner-time;  and  a  five-mile  tramp  over  the  hills 
would  consume  at  least  an  hour.  Whatever  dan 
ger  might  be  threatening  the  playwright  (and  the 
farther  Ballard  got  away  from  the  revelations  of 
the  early  afternoon,  the  more  the  entire  fabric  of 
accusation  threatened  to  crumble  into  the  stuff 
nightmares  are  made  of),  a  delay  of  an  hour  or 
two  could  hardly  bring  it  to  a  crisis.  Hence,  when 
Otto  lighted  the  lamps  and  got  out  his  wrenches, 
his  passenger  stayed  with  him  and  became  a  very 
efficient  mechanic's  helper. 

This,  as  we  have  seen,  was  at  a  quarter  before 
260 


In  the  Laboratory 

seven.  At  a  quarter  before  nine  the  broken  bolt 
was  replaced,  the  last  nut  was  screwed  home,  and 
the  engines  of  the  runabout  were  once  more  in 
commission. 

"A  handy  bit  of  road  repairing,  Otto,"  was  Bal- 
lard's  comment.  "And  we  did  it  five  miles  from 
a  lemon.  How  long  will  it  take  us  to  get  in  ?" 

The  Berliner  did  not  know.  With  no  further 
bad  luck,  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes  should  be 
enough.  And  in  fifteen  minutes  or  less  the  little 
car  was  racing  up  the  maple-shaded  avenue  to  the 
Castle  'Cadia  carriage  entrance. 

Ballard  felt  trouble  in  the  air  before  he  descended 
from  the  car.  The  great  portico  was  deserted,  the 
piano  was  silent,  and  the  lights  were  on  in  the 
upper  rooms  of  the  house.  At  the  mounting  of 
the  steps,  the  Forestry  man  met  him  and  drew  him 
aside  into  the  library,  which  was  as  empty  as  the 
portico. 

"I  heard  the  car  and  thought  it  would  be  Mr. 
Bromley,"  Bigelow  explained;  adding:  "I'm  glad 
he  didn't  come.  There  has  been  an  accident." 

"To— to  Wingfield?" 

"Yes.  How  did  you  know?  It  was  just  after 
dinner.  The  colonel  had  some  experimental  mix 
ture  cooking  in  his  electric  furnace,  and  he  invited 
us  all  down  to  the  laboratory  to  see  the  result. 
Wingfield  tangled  himself  in  the  wires  in  some 

261 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

unaccountable  way  and  got  a  terrible  shock.  For 
a  few  minutes  we  all  thought  he  was  killed,  but  the 
colonel  would  not  give  up,  and  now  he  is  slowly 
recovering." 

Ballard  sat  down  in  the  nearest  chair  and  held 
his  head  in  his  hands.  His  mind  was  in  the  condi 
tion  of  a  coffer-dam  that  has  been  laboriously 
pumped  out,  only  to  be  overwhelmed  by  a  sudden 
and  irresistible  return  of  the  flood.  The  theory  of 
premeditated  assassination  was  no  nightmare;  it 
was  a  pitiless,  brutal,  inhuman  fact.  Wingfield, 
an  invited  guest,  and  with  a  guest's  privileges  and 
immunities,  had  been  tried,  convicted,  and  sen 
tenced  for  knowing  too  much. 

"It's  pretty  bad,  isn't  it?"  he  said  to  Bigelowr 
feeling  the  necessity  of  saying  something,  and  real 
ising  at  the  same  instant  the  futility  of  putting  the 
horror  of  it  into  words  for  one  who  knew  nothing 
of  the  true  state  of  affairs. 

"  Bad  enough,  certainly.  You  can  imagine  how 
it  harrowed  all  of  us,  and  especially  the  women. 
Cousin  Janet  fainted  and  had  to  be  carried  up  to 
the  house;  and  Miss  Elsa  was  the  only  one  of  the 
young  women  who  wasn't  perfectly  helpless. 
Colonel  Craigmiles  was  our  stand-by;  he  knew 
just  what  to  do,  and  how  to  do  it.  He  is  a  wonder 
ful  man,  Mr.  Ballard." 

"He  is — in  more  ways  than  a  casual  observer 
262 


In  the  Laboratory 

would  suspect."  Ballard  suffered  so  much  of  his 
thought  to  set  itself  in  words.  To  minimise  the 
temptation  to  say  more  he  turned  his  back  upon 
the  accident  and  accounted  for  himself  and  his 
presence  at  Castle  'Cadia. 

"Bromley  was  pretty  well  tired  out  when  Otto 
came  down  with  the  car,  and  I  offered  to  ride 
around  and  make  his  excuses.  We  broke  an  engine 
bolt  on  the  road:  otherwise  I  should  have  been 
here  two  hours  earlier.  You  say  Wingfield  is  re 
covering  ?  I  wonder  if  I  could  see  him  for  a  few 
minutes,  before  I  go  back  to  camp  ?" 

Bigelow  offered  to  go  up-stairs  and  find  out;  and 
Ballard  waited  in  the  silence  of  the  deserted  li 
brary  for  what  seemed  like  a  long  time.  And 
when  the  waiting  came  to  an  end  it  was  not  Big- 

O  O 

elow  who  parted  the  portieres  and  came  silently 
to  stand  before  his  chair;  it  was  the  king's  daugh 
ter. 

''You  have  heard?"  she  asked,  and  her  voice 
seemed  to  come  from  some  immeasurable  depth  of 
anguish. 

"Yes.     Is  he  better?" 

"Much  better;  though  he  is  terribly  weak  and 
shaken."  Then  suddenly:  "What  brought  you 
here — so  late  ?" 

He  explained  the  ostensible  object  of  his  coming, 
and  mentioned  the  cause  of  the  delay.  She  heard 

263 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

him  through  without  comment,  but  there  was 
doubt  and  keen  distress  and  a  great  fear  in  the 
gray  eyes  when  he  was  permitted  to  look  into 
their  troubled  depths. 

"If  you  are  telling  me  the  truth,  you  are  not 
telling  me  all  of  it,"  she  said,  sinking  wearily  into 
one  of  the  deepest  of  the  easy-chairs  and  shading 
the  tell-tale  eyes  with  her  hand. 

"Why  shouldn't  I  tell  you  all  of  it?"  he  re 
joined  evasively. 

"I  don't  know  your  reasons:  I  can  only  fear 
them." 

"  If  you  could  put  the  fear  into  words,  perhaps 
I  might  be  able  to  allay  it,"  he  returned  gently. 

"It  is  past  alleviation;  you  know  it.  Mr. 
Wingfield  was  with  you  again  to-day,  and  when  he 
came  home  I  knew  that  the  thing  I  had  been 
dreading  had  come  to  pass." 

"  How  could  you  know  it  ?  Not  from  anything 
Wingfield  said  or  did,  I'm  sure." 

"No;  but  Jerry  Blacklock  was  with  him — and 
Jerry's  face  is  an  open  book  for  any  one  who  cares 
to  read  it.  Won't  you  please  tell  me  the  worst, 
Breckenridge  ?" 

"There  isn't  any  worst,"  denied  Ballard,  lying 
promptly  for  love's  sake.  "We  had  luncheon  to 
gether,  the  four  of  us,  in  honour  of  Bromley's  re 
covery.  Afterward,  Wingfield  spun  yarns  for  us — 

264 


In  the  Laboratory 

as  he  has  a  habit  of  doing  when  he  can  get  an 
audience  of  more  than  one  person.  Some  of  his 
stories  were  more  grewsome  than  common.  I 
don't  wonder  that  Jerry  had  a  left-over  thrill  or 
two  in  his  face." 

She  looked  up  from  behind  the  eye-shading 
hand.  "Do  you  dare  to  repeat  those  stories  to 
me?" 

His  laugh  lacked  something  of  spontaneity. 

"It  is  hardly  a  question  of  daring;  it  is  rather  a 
matter  of  memory — or  the  lack  of  it.  Who  ever 
tries  to  make  a  record  of  after-dinner  fictions  ? 
Wingfield's  story  was  a  tale  of  impossible  crimes 
and  their  more  impossible  detection;  the  plot  and 
outline  for  a  new  play,  I  fancied,  which  he  was 
trying  first  on  the  dog.  Blacjdock  was  the  only 
one  of  his  three  listeners  who  took  him  seriously." 

She  was  silenced,  if  not  wholly  convinced;  and 
when  she  spoke  again  it  was  of  the  convalescent 
assistant. 

"You  are  not  going  to  keep  Mr.  Bromley  at 
the  camp,  are  you  ?  He  isn't  able  to  work  yet." 

"Oh,  no.  You  may  send  for  him  in  the  morn 
ing,  if  you  wish.  I — he  was  a  little  tired  to 
night,  and  I  thought 

"Yes;  you  have  told  me  what  you  thought," 
she  reminded  him,  half  absently.  And  then,  with 
a  note  of  constraint  in  her  voice  that  was  quite  new 

265 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

to  him:  "You  are  not  obliged  to  go  back  to  Elbow 
Canyon  to-night,  are  you  ?  Your  room  is  always 
ready  for  you  at  Castle  'Cadia." 

"Thank  you;  but  I'll  have  to  go  back.  If  I 
don't,  Bromley  will  think  he's  the  whole  thing  and 
start  in  to  run  the  camp  in  the  morning  before  I 
could  show  up." 

She  rose  when  he  did,  but  her  face  was  averted 
and  he  could  not  see  her  eyes  when  he  went  on  in 
a  tone  from  which  every  emotion  save  that  of  mere 
friendly  solicitude  was  carefully  effaced:  "May  I 
go  up  and  jolly  Wingfield  a  bit  ?  He'll  think  it 
odd  if  I  go  without  looking  in  at  him." 

"If  you  should  go  without  doing  that  for  which 
you  came,"  she  corrected,  with  the  same  imper 
sonal  note  in  her  voice.  "Of  course,  you  may  see 
him:  come  with  me." 

She  led  the  way  up  the  grand  stair  and  left  him 
at  the  door  of  a  room  in  the  wing  which  com 
manded  a  view  of  the  sky-pitched  backgrounding 
mountains.  The  door  was  ajar,  and  when  he 
knocked  and  pushed  it  open  he  saw  that  the  play 
wright  was  in  bed,  and  that  he  was  alone. 

"  By  Jove,  now!"  said  a  weak  voice  from  the  pil 
lows;  "this  is  neighbourly  of  you,  Ballard.  How 
the  dickens  did  you  manage  to  hear  of  it  ?" 

"  Bad  news  travels  fast,"  said  Ballard,  drawing 
a  chair  to  the  bedside.  He  did  not  mean  to  go 

266 


In  the  Laboratory 

into  details  if  he  could  help  it;  and  to  get  away 
from  them  he  asked  how  the  miracle  of  recovery 
was  progressing. 

"Oh,  I'm  all  right  now,"  was  the  cheerful  re 
sponse — "coming  alive  at  the  rate  of  two  nerves 
to  the  minute.  And  I  wouldn't  have  missed  it  for 
the  newest  thousand-dollar  bill  that  ever  crackled 
in  the  palm  of  poverty.  What  few  thrills  I  can't 
put  into  a  description  of  electrocution,  after  this, 
won't  be  worth  mentioning." 

"They  have  left  you  alone?"  queried  Ballard, 
with  a  glance  around  the  great  room. 

"Just  this  moment.  The  colonel  and  Miss 
Cauffrey  and  Miss  Dosia  were  with  me  when  the 
buzzer  went  off.  Whoever  sent  you  up  pressed 
the  button  down  stairs.  Neat,  isn't  it.  How's 
Bromley  ?  I  hope  you  didn't  come  to  tell  us  that 
his  first  day  in  camp  knocked  him  out." 

"No;  Bromley  is  all  right.  You  are  the  sick 
man,  now." 

Wingfield's  white  teeth  gleamed  in  a  rather 
haggard  smile. 

"I  have  looked  over  the  edge,  Ballard;  that's 
the  fact." 

"Tell  me  about  it — if  you  can." 

"There  isn't  much  to  tell.  We  were  all  crowd 
ing  around  the  electric  furnace,  taking  turns  at  the 
coloured-glass  protected  peep-hole.  The  colonel 

267 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

had  warned  us  about  the  wires,  but  the  warning 
didn't  cut  any  figure  in  my  case." 

"You  stumbled?" 

The  man  in  bed  flung  a  swift  glance  across  the 
room  toward  the  corridor  door  which  Ballard  had 
left  ajar. 

"Go  quietly  and  shut  that  door,"  was  his  whis 
pered  command;  and  when  Ballard  had  obeyed 
it:  "Now  pull  your  chair  closer  and  I'll  answer 
your  question:  No,  I  didn't  stumble.  Somebody 
tripped  me,  and  in  falling  I  grabbed  at  one  of  the 
electrodes." 

"I  was  sure  of  it,"  said  Ballard,  quietly.  "I 
knew  that  in  all  human  probability  you  would  be 
the  next  victim.  That  is  why  I  persuaded  Brom 
ley  to  let  me  take  his  place  in  the  motor-car.  If  the 
car  hadn't  broken  down,  I  should  have  been  here 
in  time  to  warn  you.  I  suppose  it  isn't  necessary 
to  ask  who  tripped  you  ?" 

The  playwright  rocked  his  head  on  the  pillow. 

"I'm  afraid  not,  Ballard.  The  man  who  after 
ward  saved  my  life — so  they  all  say — was  the  one 
who  stood  nearest  to  me  at  the  moment.  The 
'why'  is  what  is  tormenting  me.  I'm  not  the 
Arcadia  Company,  or  its  chief  engineer,  or  any 
body  in  particular  in  this  game  of  'heads  I  win, 
and  tails  you  lose." 

Ballard  left  his  chair  and  walked  slowly  to  the 
268 


In  the  Laboratory 

mountain-viewing  window.  When  he  returned  to 
the  bedside,  he  said:  "I  can  help  you  to  the  'why/ 
What  you  said  in  my  office  to-day  to  three  of  us 
was  overheard  by  a  fourth — and  the  fourth  was 
Manuel.  An  hour  or  so  later  he  came  up  this  way, 
on  foot.  Does  that  clear  the  horizon  for  you  ?" 

"Perfectly,"  was  the  whispered  response,  fol 
lowed  by  a  silence  heavy  with  forecastings. 

"Under  the  changed  conditions,  it  was  only  fair 
to  you  to  bring  you  your  warning,  and  to  take  off 
the  embargo  on  your  leaving  Castle  'Cadia.  Of 
course,  you'll  get  yourself  recalled  to  New  York 
at  once?"  said  Ballard. 

Wingfield  raised  himself  on  one  elbow,  and  again 
his  lips  parted  in  the  grinning  smile. 

"Not  in  a  thousand  years,  Ballard.  I'll  see  this 
thing  out  now,  if  I  get  killed  regularly  once  a  day. 
You  say  I  mustn't  write  about  it,  and  that's  so. 
I'm  not  a  cad.  But  the  experience  is  worth  mil 
lions  to  me — worth  all  the  chances  I'm  taking, 
and  more.  I'll  stay." 

Ballard  gripped  the  womanish  hand  lying  on 
the  coverlet.  Here,  after  all,  and  under  all  the 
overlayings  of  pose  and  craftsman  egotism,  was  a 
man  with  a  man's  heart  and  courage. 

"You're  a  brave  fool,  Wingfield,"  he  said, 
warmly;  "and  because  you  are  brave  and  a  man 
grown,  you  shall  be  one  of  us.  We — Bromley  and 

269 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

I — bluffed  you  to-day  for  a  woman's  sake.  If  you 
could  have  got  away  from  the  excitement  of  the 
man-hunt  for  a  single  second,  I  know  your  first 
thought  would  have  been  for  the  woman  whose 
lifted  finger  silences  three  of  us.  Because  you 
seemed  to  forget  this  for  the  moment,  I  knocked 
you  down  with  your  own  theory.  Does  that  clear 
another  of  the  horizons  for  you  ?" 

"  Immensely.  And  I  deserved  all  you  gave  me. 
Until  I'm  killed  off,  you  may  comfort  yourself  with 
the  thought  that  one  of  the  gallant  three  is  here, 
in  the  wings,  as  you  might  say,  ready  and  willing 
to  do  what  he  can  to  keep  the  curtain  from  rising 
on  any  more  tragedy." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Ballard,  heartily;  "that  will 
be  a  comfort."  Then,  with  a  parting  hand-grip 
and  an  added  word  of  caution  to  the  man  who 
knew  too  much,  he  left  the  room  and  the  house, 
finding  his  way  unattended  to  the  great  portico 
and  to  the  path  leading  down  to  the  river  road. 

The  mile  faring  down  the  valley  in  the  velvety 
blackness  of  the  warm  summer  night  was  a  meli 
orating  ending  to  the  day  of  revelations  and 
alarms;  and  for  the  first  time  since  Wingfield's 
clever  unravelling  of  the  tangled  mesh  of  mystery, 
the  Kentuckian  was  able  to  set  the  accusing  facts 
in  orderly  array.  Yet  now,  as  before,  the  greatest 
of  the  mysteries  refused  to  take  its  place  in  the 

270 


In  the  Laboratory 

wellnigh  completed  circle  of  incriminating  dis 
coveries.  That  the  King  of  Arcadia,  Elsa's 
father  and  the  genial  host  of  the  great  house  on 
the  knoll,  was  a  common  murderer,  lost  to  every 
humane  and  Christian  prompting  of  the  soul,  was 
still  as  incredible  as  a  myth  of  the  Middle  Ages. 

"  Til  wake  up  some  time  in  the  good  old  daylight 
of  the  every-day,  commonplace  world,  I  hope," 
was  Ballard's  summing-up,  when  he  had  traversed 
the  reflective  mile  and  had  let  himself  into  the  office 
bungalow  to  find  Bromley  sleeping  peacefully  in 
his  bunk.  "But  it's  a  little  hard  to  wait — with 
the  air  full  of  Damocles-swords,  and  with  the  dear 
girl's  heart  gripped  in  a  vise  that  I  can't  unscrew. 
That  is  what  makes  it  bitterer  than  death:  she 
knows,  and  it  is  killing  her  by  inches — in  spite  of 
the  bravest  heart  that  ever  loved  and  suffered. 
God  help  her:  God  help  us  all!" 


271 


XX 

THE  GEOLOGIST 

IT  was  Miss  Craigmiles  herself  who  gave  Bal- 
lard  the  exact  date  of  Professor  Gardiner's 
coming;  driving  down  to  the  construction  camp 
alone  in  the  little  motor-car  for  that  avowed  pur 
pose. 

A  cloudburst  in  the  main  range  had  made  the 
stage  road  from  Alta  Vista  impassable  for  the 
moment,  leaving  the  Arcadia  Company's  railroad 
—by  some  unexplained  miracle  of  good  fortune — 
unharmed.  Hence,  unless  the  expected  guest  could 
be  brought  over  from  Alta  Vista  on  the  material 
train,  he  would  be  indefinitely  detained  on  the 
other  side  of  the  mountain.  Miss  Elsa  came  os 
tensibly  to  beg  a  favour. 

"Of  course,  I'll  send  over  for  him,"  said  Bal- 
lard,  when  the  favour  had  been  named.  "  Didn't 
I  tell  you  he  is  going  to  be  my  guest  ?" 

"But  he  isn't,"  she  insisted,  playfully.  Brom 
ley  was  out  and  at  work,  Wingfield  had  entirely 
recovered  from  the  effects  of  his  electric  shock,  and 

272 


The  Geologist 

there  had  been  no  untoward  happenings  for  three 
peaceful  weeks.  Wherefore  there  was  occasion 
for  light-heartedness. 

Ballard  descended  from  the  bungalow  porch  and 
arbitrarily  stopped  the  buzzing  engines  of  the  run 
about  by  cutting  out  the  batteries.  "This  is  the 
first  time  I've  seen  you  for  three  weeks,"  he  as 
serted — which  was  a  lover's  exaggeration.  "  Please 
come  up  and  sit  on  the  porch.  There  is  any  num 
ber  of  things  I  want  to  say." 

"Where  is  Mr.  Bromley?"  she  asked,  making 
no  move  to  leave  the  driving-seat. 

"He  is  out  on  the  ditch  survey — luckily  for  me. 
Won't  you  please  'light  and  come  in  ? — as  we  say 
back  in  the  Blue-grass." 

"You  don't  deserve  it.  You  haven't  been 
near  us  since  Mr.  Bromley  went  back  to  work. 
Why?" 

"I  have  been  exceedingly  busy;  we  are  coming 
down  the  home-stretch  on  our  job  here,  as  you 
know."  The  commonplace  excuse  was  the  only 
one  available.  He  could  not  tell  her  that  it  was 
impossible  for  him  to  accept  further  hospitalities 
at  Castle  'Cadia. 

"Mr.  Bromley  hasn't  been  too  busy,"  she  sug 
gested. 

"  Bromley  owes  all  of  you  a  very  great  debt  of 
gratitude." 

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The  King  of  Arcadia 

"And  you  do  not,  you  would  say.  That  is 
quite  true.  You  owe  us  nothing  but  uncompro 
mising  antagonism — hatred,  if  you  choose  to  carry 
it  to  that  extreme." 

"No,"  he  returned  gravely.  "I  can't  think  of 
you  and  of  enmity  at  the  same  moment." 

"If  you  could  only  know,"  she  said,  half  ab 
sently,  and  the  trouble  shadow  came  quickly  into 
the  backgrounding  depths  of  the  beautiful  eyes. 
*  There  is  no  real  cause  for  enmity  or  hatred — 
absolutely  none." 

"  I  am  thinking  of  you,"  he  reminded  her,  re 
verting  to  the  impossibility  of  associating  that 
thought  with  the  other. 

'Thank  you;  I  am  glad  you  can  make  even 
that  much  of  a  concession.  It  is  more  than  an 
other  would  make."  Then,  with  the  unexpected 
ness  which  was  all  her  own :  "  I  am  still  curious  to 
know  what  you  did  to  Mr.  Wingfield:  that  day 
when  he  so  nearly  lost  his  life  in  the  laboratory?" 

"At  what  time  in  that  day  ?"  he  asked,  meaning 
to  dodge  if  he  could. 

"You  know — when  you  had  him  here  in  your 
office,  with  Jerry  and  Mr.  Bromley." 

"I  don't  remember  all  the  things  I  did  to  him, 
that  day  and  before  it.  I  believe  I  made  him 
welcome — when  I  had  to.  He  hasn't  been  using 
his  welcome  much  lately,  though." 

274 


The  Geologist 

"No;  not  since  that  day  that  came  near  ending 
so  terribly.  I'd  like  to  know  what  happened. " 

"Nothing — of  any  consequence.  I  believe  I 
told  you  that  Wingfield  was  boring  us  with  the 
plot  of  a  new  play." 

"Yes;   and  you  said  you  couldn't  remember  it." 

"I  don't  want  to  remember  it.  Let's  talk  of 
something  else.  Is  your  anxiety — the  trouble  you 
refuse  to  share  with  me — any  lighter?" 

"No — yes;    just  for  the  moment,  perhaps." 

"Are  you  still  determined  not  to  let  me  efface  it 
for  you  ?" 

"You  couldn't;  no  one  can.  It  can  never  be 
effaced." 

His  smile  was  the  man's  smile  of  superior  wis 
dom. 

"  Don't  we  always  say  that  when  the  trouble  is 
personal  ?" 

She  ignored  the  query  completely,  and  her 
rejoinder  was  totally  irrelevant — or  it  seemed 
to  be. 

"  You  think  I  came  down  here  to  ask  you  to  send 
over  to  Alta  Vista  for  Professor  Gardiner.  That 
was  merely  an  excuse.  I  wanted  to  beg  you  once 
again  to  suspend  judgment — not  to  be  vindictive." 

Again  he  dissimulated.  "I'm  not  vindictive: 
why  should  I  be?" 

"You  have  every  reason;    or,  at  least,  you  be- 

275 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

lieve  you  have."  She  leaned  over  the  arm  of  the 
driving-seat  and  searched  his  eyes  pleadingly: 
"Please  tell  me:  how  much  did  Mr.  Wingfield 
find  out?" 

It  was  blankly  impossible  to  tell  her  the  hideous 
truth,  or  anything  remotely  approaching  it.  But 
his  parrying  of  her  question  was  passing  skilless. 

"Not  being  a  mind-reader,  I  can't  say  what 
Wingfield  knows — or  thinks  he  knows.  Our  dis 
agreement  turned  upon  his  threat  to  make  literary 
material  out  of — well,  out  of  matters  that  were  in 
a  good  measure  my  own  private  and  personal 
affairs." 

"Oh;  so  there  was  a  quarrel?  That  is  more 
than  you  were  willing  to  admit  a  moment  ago." 

"You  dignify  it  too  much.  I  believe  I  called 
him  an  ass,  and  he  called  me  an  idiot.  There  was 
no  bloodshed." 

"You  are  jesting  again.  You  always  jest  when 
I  want  to  be  serious." 

"I  might  retort  that  I  learned  the  trick  of  it 
from  you — in  the  blessed  days  that  are  now  a  part 
of  another  existence." 

"Oh!"  she  said;  and  there  was  so  much  more  of 
distress  than  of  impatience  in  the  little  outcry  that 
he  was  mollified  at  once. 

"I'm  going  to  crank  the  engines  and  send  you 
home,"  he  asseverated.  "I'm  not  fit  to  talk  to 

276 


The  Geologist 

you  to-day. "  And  he  started  the  engines  of  the 
motor-car. 

She  put  a  dainty  foot  on  the  clutch-pedal. 
"You'll  come  up  and  see  me  ?"  she  asked;  adding: 
"Some  time  when  you  are  fit  ?" 

"I'll  come  when  I  am  needed;   yes." 

He  walked  beside  the  slowly  moving  car  as  she 
sent  it  creeping  down  the  mesa  hill  on  the  brakes. 
At  the  hill-bottom  turn,  where  the  camp  street 
ended  and  the  roundabout  road  led  off  to  the  tem 
porary  bridge,  she  stopped  the  car.  The  towering 
wall  of  the  great  dam,  with  its  dotting  of  workmen 
silhouetted  black  against  the  blue  of  the  Colorado 
sky,  rose  high  on  the  left.  She  let  her  gaze  climb 
to  the  summit  of  the  huge  dike. 

"You  are  nearly  through?"  she  asked. 

"Yes.  Two  other  weeks,  with  no  bad  luck,  will 
see  us  ready  to  turn  on  the  water." 

She  was  looking  straight  ahead  again. 

"You  know  what  that  means  to  us  at  Castle 
'Cadia  ? — but  of  course  you  do." 

"I  know  Pd  rather  be  a  ' mucker*  with  a  pick 
and  shovel  out  yonder  in  the  ditch  than  to  be  the 
boss  here  when  the  spillway  gates  are  closed  at  the 
head  of  the  cut-off  tunnel.  And  that  is  the  pure 
truth." 

"This  time  I  believe  you  without  reservation, 
Breckenridge— my  friend."  Then:  "Will  Mr. 

277 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

Pelham  come  out  to  the  formal  and  triumphal 
opening  of  the  Arcadian  Irrigation  District?" 

"Oh,  you  can  count  on  that — with  all  the  trim 
mings.  There  is  to  be  a  demonstration  in  force, 
as  Major  Blacklock  would  say;  special  trains  from 
Denver  to  bring  the  crowd,  a  barbecue  dinner, 
speeches,  a  land-viewing  excursion  over  the  com 
pleted  portion  of  the  railroad,  and  fireworks  in  the 
evening  while  the  band  plays  'America.'  You  can 
trust  Mr.  Pelham  to  beat  the  big  drum  and  to 
clash  the  cymbals  vigorously  and  man-fashion  at 
the  psychological  instant." 

"  For  purely  commercial  reasons,  of  course  ?  I 
could  go  a  step  further  and  tell  you  something  else 
that  will  happen.  There  will  be  a  good  many 
transfers  of  the  Arcadia  Company's  stock  at  the 
triumphal  climax." 

He  was  standing  with  one  foot  on  the  car  step 
and  his  hands  buried  in  the  pockets  of  his  short 
working-coat.  His  eyes  narrowed  to  regard  her 
thoughtfully. 

"What  do  you  know  about  such  things?"  he 
demurred.  uYou  know  altogether  too  much  for 
one  small  bachelor  maid.  It's  uncanny." 

"I  am  the  cow-punching  princess  of  Arcadia, 
and  Mr.  Pelham's  natural  enemy,  you  must  re 
member,"  she  countered,  with  a  laugh  that  sounded 
entirely  care-free.  "I  could  tell  you  more  about 

278 


The  Geologist 

the  stock  affair.  Mr.  Pelham  has  been  very  lib 
eral  with  his  friends  in  the  floating  of  this  great  and 
glorious  undertaking — to  borrow  one  of  his  pet 
phrases.  He  has  placed  considerable  quantities 
of  the  Arcadia  Company's  stock  among  them  at 
merely  nominal  prices,  asking  only  that  they  sign 
a  'gentlemen's  agreement'  not  to  resell  any  of  it, 
so  that  my  father  could  get  it.  But  there  is  a 
wheel  within  that  wheel,  too.  Something  more 
than  half  of  the  nominal  capitalisation  has  been 
reserved  as  *  treasury  stock/  When  the  enthusiasm 
reaches  the  proper  height,  this  reserved  stock  will 
be  put  upon  the  market.  People  will  be  eager  to 
buy  it — won't  they  ? — with  the  work  all  done,  and 
everything  in  readiness  to  tap  the  stream  of  sudden 
wealth?" 

"Probably:    that  would  be  the  natural  infer 


ence." 


"I  thought  so.  And,  as  the  company's  chief 
engineer,  you  could  doubtless  get  in  on  the  'ground 
floor'  that  Mr.  Pelham  is  always  talking  about, 
couldn't  you  ?" 

The  question  was  one  to  prick  an  honest  man 
in  his  tenderest  part.  Ballard  was  hurt,  and  his 
face  advertised  it. 

"See  here,  little  girl,"  he  said,  flinging  the  for 
malities  to  the  winds;  "I  am  the  company's  hired 
man  at  the  present  moment,  but  that  is  entirely 

279 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

without  prejudice  to  my  convictions,  or  to  the  fact 
that  some  day  I  am  going  to  marry  you.  I  hope 
that  defines  my  attitude.  As  matters  stand,  Mr. 
Pelham  couldn't  hand  me  out  any  of  his  stock  on 
a  silver  platter!" 

"And  Mr.  Bromley?" 

"You  needn't  fear  for  Loudon;  he  isn't  going 
to  invest,  either.  You  know  very  well  that  he  is 
in  precisely  the  same  boat  that  I  am." 

"How  shocking!"  she  exclaimed,  with  an  embar 
rassed  little  laugh.  "Is  Mr.  Bromley  to  marry 
your  widow  ?  Or  are  you  to  figure  as  the  consola 
tion  prize  for  his  widow  ?  Doubtless  you  have 
arranged  it  amicably  between  you." 

Having  said  the  incendiary  thing,  he  brazened  it 
out  like  a  man  and  a  lover. 

"It's  no  joke.  I  suppose  I  might  sidestep,  but 
I  sha'n't.  You  know  very  well  that  Bromley  is  in 
love  with  you — up  to  his  chin,  and  I'm  afraid  you 
have  been  too  kind  to  him.  That  is  a  little  hard 
on  Loudon,  you  know — when  you  are  going  to 
marry  some  one  else.  But  let  that  rest,  and  tell 
me  a  little  more  about  this  stock  deal.  Why 
should  there  be  a  *  gentlemen's  agreement'  to  ex 
clude  your  father  ?  To  a  rank  outsider  like  my 
self,  Arcadia  Irrigation  would  seem  to  be  about 
the  last  thing  in  the  world  Colonel  Adam  Craig- 
miles  would  want  to  buy." 

280 


The  Geologist 

"Under  present  conditions,  I  think  it  is,"  she 
said.  "/  shouldn't  buy  it  now." 

"What  would  you  do,  O  wise  virgin  of  the 
market-place  ?" 

"I'd  wait  patiently  while  the  rocket  is  going  up; 
I  might  even  clap  my  hands  and  say  'Ah-h-h!'  with 
the  admiring  multitude.  But  afterward,  when  the 
stick  comes  down,  I'd  buy  every  bit  of  Arcadia 
Irrigation  I  could  find." 

Again  he  was  regarding  her  through  half-closed 
eyelids. 

"As  I  said  before,  you  know  too  much  about 
such  things — altogether  too  much."  He  said  it 
half  in  raillery,  but  his  deduction  was  made  seri 
ously  enough.  "You  think  your  father  will  win 
his  law-suit  and  so  break  the  market?" 

"No;  on  the  contrary,  I'm  quite  sure  he  will  be 
beaten.  I  am  going,  now.  Don't  ask  me  any 
more  questions:  I've  said  too  much  to  the  com 
pany's  engineer,  as  it  is." 

"You  have  said  nothing  to  the  company's  engi 
neer,"  he  denied.  "You  have  been  talking  to 
Breckenridge  Ballard,  your  future — 

She  set  the  car  in  motion  before  he  could  com 
plete  the  sentence,  and  he  stood  looking  after  it  as 
it  shot  away  up  the  hills.  It  was  quite  out  of  sight, 
and  the  sound  of  its  drumming  motor  was  lost  in 
the  hoarse  grumbling  of  the  river,  before  he  began 

281 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

to  realise  that  Elsa's  visit  had  not  been  for  the  pur 
pose  of  asking  him  to  send  for  Gardiner,  nor  yet 
to  beg  him  not  to  be  vindictive.  Her  real  object 
had  been  to  warn  him  not  to  buy  Arcadia  Irriga 
tion.  "Why?"  came  the  unfailing  question,  shot- 
like;  and,  like  all  the  others  of  its  tribe,  it  had  to 
go  unanswered. 

It  was  two  days  later  when  Gardiner,  the  assist 
ant  professor  of  geology,  kept  his  appointment,  was 
duly  met  at  Alta  Vista  by  Ballard's  special  engine 
and  a  "dinkey"  way-car,  and  was  transported  in 
state  to  the  Arcadian  fastnesses.  Ballard  had  it 
in  mind  to  run  down  the  line  on  the  other  engine 
to  meet  the  Bostonian;  but  Elsa  forestalled  him 
by  intercepting  the  "special"  at  Ackerman's  with 
the  motor-car  and  whisking  the  guest  over  the 
roundabout  road  to  Castle  'Cadia. 

Gardiner  walked  down  to  the  construction  camp 
at  Elbow  Canyon  bright  and  early  the  following 
morning  to  make  his  peace  with  Ballard. 

"Age  has  its  privileges  which  youth  is  obliged 
to  concede,  Breckenridge,  my  son,"  was  the  form 
his  apology  took.  "When  I  learned  that  I  might 
have  my  visit  with  you,  and  still  be  put  up  at  the 
millionaire  hostelry  in  the  valley  above,  I  didn't 
hesitate  a  moment.  I  am  far  beyond  the  point  of 
bursting  into  enthusiastic  raptures  over  a  bunk 
shake-down  in  a  camp  shanty,  steel  forks,  tin 

282' 


The  Geologist 

platters,  and  plum-duff,  when  I  can  live  on  the 
fat  of  the  land  and  sleep  on  a  modern  mattress. 
How  are  you  coming  on  ?  Am  I  still  in  time  to 
be  in  at  the  death  ?" 

"  I  hope  there  isn't  going  to  be  any  death,"  was 
the  laughing  rejoinder.  "  Because,  in  the  natural 
sequence  of  things,  it  would  have  to  be  mine,  you 
know." 

"Ah!  You  are  tarred  a  little  with  the  super 
stitious  stick,  yourself,  are  you  ?  What  was  it  you 
said  to  me  about  'two  sheer  accidents  and  a  com 
monplace  tragedy'?  You  may  remember  that  I 
warned  you,  and  the  event  proves  that  I  was  a  true 
prophet.  I  predicted  that  Arcadia  would  have  its 
shepherdess,  you  recollect." 

Thus,  with  dry  humour,  the  wise  man  from  the 
East.  But  Ballard  was  not  prepared  at  the  mo 
ment  for  a  plunge  into  the  pool  of  sentiment  with 
the  mildly  cynical  old  schoolman  for  a  bath- 
master,  and  he  proposed,  as  the  readiest  alterna 
tive,  a  walking  tour  of  the  industries. 

Gardiner  was  duly  impressed  by  the  industrial 
miracles,  and  by  the  magnitude  of  the  irrigation 
scheme.  Also,  he  found  fitting  words  in  which  to 
express  his  appreciation  of  the  thoroughness  of 
Ballard's  work,  and  of  the  admirable  system  under 
which  it  was  pressing  swiftly  to  its  conclusion. 
But  these  matters  became  quickly  subsidiary  when 

283 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

he  began  to  examine  the  curious  geological  forma 
tion  of  the  foothill  range  through  which  the  river 
elbowed  its  tumultuous  course. 

"  These  little  wrinklings  of  the  earth's  crust  at 
the  foot  of  the  great  mountain  systems  are  nature's 
puzzle-pieces  for  us,"  he  remarked.  "I  foresee  an 
extremely  enjoyable  vacation  for  me — if  you  have 
forgiven  me  to  the  extent  of  a  snack  at  your  mess- 
table  now  and  then,  and  a  possible  night's  lodging 
in  your  bungalow  if  I  should  get  caught  out  too 
late  to  reach  the  millionaire  luxuries  of  Castle 
'Cadia." 

"If  I  haven't  forgiven  you,  Bromley  will  take 
you  in,"  laughed  Ballard.  "Make  yourself  one  of 
us — when  you  please  and  as  you  please.  The 
camp  and  everything  in  it  belongs  to  you  for  as 
long  as  you  can  persuade  yourself  to  stay." 

Gardiner  accepted  the  invitation  in  its  largest 
sense,  and  the  afternoon  of  the  same  day  found  him 
prowling  studiously  in  the  outlet  canyon  with  ham 
mer  and  specimen-bag;  a  curious  figure  of  com 
plete  abstraction  in  brown  duck  and  service  leg 
gings,  overshadowed  by  an  enormous  cork-lined 
helmet-hat  that  had  been  faded  and  stained  by 
the  sun  and  rains  of  three  continents.  Ballard 
passed  the  word  among  his  workmen.  The  ab 
sent-minded  stranger  under  the  cork  hat  was  the 
guest  of  the  camp,  who  was  to  be  permitted  to  go 

284 


The  Geologist 

and  come  as  he  chose,  whose  questions  were  to  be 
answered  without  reserve,  and  whose  peculiarities, 
if  he  had  any,  were  to  pass  unremarked. 

With  the  completion  of  the  dam  so  near  at  hand, 
neither  of  the  two  young  men  who  were  respon 
sible  for  the  great  undertaking  had  much  time  to 
spare  for  extraneous  things.  But  Gardiner  asked 
little  of  his  secondary  hosts;  and  presently  the  thin, 
angular  figure  prowling  and  tapping  at  the  rocks 
became  a  familiar  sight  in  the  busy  construction 
camp.  It  was  Lamoine,  the  camp  jester,  who 
started  the  story  that  the  figure  in  brown  canvas 
was  a  mascot,  imported  specially  by  the  "boss"  to 
hold  the  "hoodoo"  in  check  until  the  work  should 
be  done;  and  thereafter  the  Boston  professor 
might  have  chipped  his  specimens  from  the  facing 
stones  on  the  dam  without  let  or  hindrance. 

The  masons  were  setting  the  coping  course  on 
the  great  wall  on  a  day  when  Gardiner's  studious 
enthusiasm  carried  him  beyond  the  dinner-hour 
at  Castle  'Cadia  and  made  him  an  evening  guest 
in  the  engineer's  adobe;  and  in  the  after-supper 
talk  it  transpired  that  the  assistant  in  geology  had 
merely  snatched  a  meagre  fortnight  out  of  his  work 
in  the  summer  school,  and  would  be  leaving  for 
home  in  another  day  or  two. 

Both  of  the  young  men  protested  their  disap 
pointment.  They  had  been  too  busy  to  see  any- 

285 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

thing  of  their  guest  in  a  comradely  way,  and  they 
had  been  looking  forward  to  the  lull  in  the  activ 
ities  which  would  follow  the  opening  celebration 
and  promising  themselves  a  more  hospitable  en 
tertainment  of  the  man  who  had  been  both  Mentor 
and  elder  brother  to  them  in  the  Boston  years. 

"You  are  not  regretting  it  half  as  keenly  as  I 
am,"  the  guest  assured  them.  "Apart  from  losing 
the  chance  to  thresh  it  out  with  you  two,  I  have 
never  been  on  more  fascinatingly  interesting  geo 
logical  ground.  I  could  spend  an  entire  summer 
among  these  wonderful  hills  of  yours  without  ex 
hausting  their  astonishing  resources." 

Ballard  made  allowances  for  scholastic  enthu 
siasm.  He  had  slighted  geology  for  the  more 
strictly  practical  studies  in  his  college  course. 

"Meaning  the  broken  formations?"  he  asked. 

"Meaning  the  general  topsyturvyism  of  all  the 
formations.  Where  you  might  reasonably  expect 
to  find  one  stratum,  you  find  others  perhaps  thou 
sands  of  years  older — or  younger — in  the  geological 
chronology.  I  wonder  you  haven't  galvanised  a 
little  enthusiasm  over  it:  you  discredit  your  alma 
mater  and  me  when  you  regard  these  marvellous 
hills  merely  as  convenient  buttresses  for  your  wall 
of  masonry.  And,  by  the  way,  that  reminds  me: 
neither  of  you  two  youngsters  is  responsible  for 
the  foundations  of  that  dam;  isn't  that  the  fact?" 

286 


The  Geologist 

"It  is,"  said  Bromley,  answering  for  both.  Then 
he  added  that  the  specifications  called  for  bed 
rock,  which  Fitzpatrick,  who  had  worked  under 
Braithwaite,  said  had  been  uncovered  and  properly 
benched  for  the  structure. 

"'Bed-rock/'1  said  the  geologist,  reflectively. 
"That  is  a  workman's  term,  and  is  apt  to  be  mis 
leading.  The  vital  question,  under  such  abnormal 
conditions  as  those  presenting  themselves  in  your 
canyon,  is,  What  kind  of  rock  was  it  ?" 

Bromley  shook  his  head.  uYou  can't  prove  it 
by  me.  The  foundations  were  all  in  before  I 
came  on  the  job.  But  from  Fitzpatrick's  descrip 
tion  I  should  take  it  to  be  the  close-grained  lime 


stone." 


"H'm,"  said  Gardiner.  "Dam-building  isn't 
precisely  in  my  line;  but  I  shouldn't  care  to  trust  any 
thing  short  of  the  granites  in  such  a  locality  as  this." 

"You've  seen  something?"  queried  Ballard. 

"Nothing  immediately  alarming;  merely  an  in 
dication  of  what  might  be.  Where  the  river 
emerges  from  your  cut-off  tunnel  below  the  dam, 
it  has  worn  out  a  deep  pit  in  the  old  bed,  as  you 
know.  The  bottom  of  this  pit  must,  in  the  nature 
of  things,  be  far  below  the  foundations  of  the 
masonry.  Had  you  thought  of  that?" 

"  I  have — more  than  once  or  twice,"  Ballard  ad 
mitted. 

287 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

"Very  well,"  continued  the  Master  of  the  Rocks; 
"that  circumstance  suggests  three  interrogation 
points.  Query  one:  How  has  the  diverted  torrent 
managed  to  dig  such  a  deep  cavity  if  the  true 
primitives — your  workman's  *  bed-rock' — under 
lie  its  channel  cutting  ?  Query  two:  What  causes 
the  curious  reverberatory  sound  like  distant  thun 
der  made  by  the  stream  as  it  plunges  into  this  pit— 
a  sound  suggesting  subterranean  caverns  ?  Query 
three — and  this  may  be  set  down  as  the  most  im 
portant  of  the  trio :  Why  is  the  detritus  washed  up 
out  of  this  singular  pot-hole  a  friable  brown  shale, 
quite  unlike  anything  found  higher  up  in  the  bed 
of  the  stream  ?" 

The  two  young  men  exchanged  swift  glances 
of  apprehension.  " Your  deductions,  Professor?" 
asked  Bromley,  anxiously. 

"Now  you  are  going  too  fast.  True  science 
doesn't  deduce:  it  waits  until  it  can  prove.  But 
I  might  hazard  a  purely  speculative  guess.  Mr. 
Braithwaite's  foundation  stratum — your  contrac 
tor's  'bed-rock' — may  not  be  the  true  primitive; 
it  may  in  its  turn  be  underbedded  by  this  brown 
shale  that  the  stream  is  washing  up  out  of  its  pot 
hole." 

"Which  brings  on  more  talk,"  said  Ballard, 
grappling  thoughtfully  with  the  new  perplexities 
forming  themselves  upon  Gardiner's  guess. 

288 


The  Geologist 

"Decidedly,  one  would  say.  Granting  my 
speculative  answer  to  Query  Number  Three,  the 
Arcadia  Company's  dam  may  stand  for  a  thousand 
years — or  it  may  not.  Its  life  may  possibly  be 
determined  in  a  single  night,  if  by  any  means  the 
water  impounded  above  it  should  find  its  way 
through  Fitzpatrick's  'bed-rock'  to  an  underlying 
softer  stratum." 

Ballard's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  a  blue-print  pro 
file  of  Elbow  Canyon  pinned  upon  the  wall,  when 
he  said:  "If  that  pot-hole,  or  some  rift  similar  to 
it,  were  above  the  dam  instead  of  below  it,  for 
example  ?" 

"Precisely,"  said  the  geologist.  "In  five  min 
utes  after  the  opening  of  such  an  underground 
channel  your  dam  might  be  transformed  into  a 
makeshift  bridge  spanning  an  erosive  torrent  com 
parable  in  fierce  and  destructive  energy,  to  nothing 
milder  than  a  suddenly  released  Niagara." 

Silence  ensued,  and  afterward  the  talk  drifted 
to  other  fields;  was  chiefly  reminiscent  of  the 
younger  men's  university  years.  It  was  while 
Bromley  and  Gardiner  were  carrying  the  brunt  of 
it  that  Ballard  got  up  and  went  out.  A  few  min 
utes  later  the  out-door  stillness  of  the  night  was 
shattered  by  the  sharp  crack  of  a  rifle,  and  other 
shots  followed  in  quick  succession. 

Bromley  sprang  afoot  at  the  first  discharge,  but 
289 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

before  he  could  reach  the  door  of  the  adobe,  Bal- 
lard  came  in,  carrying  a  hatful  of  roughly  crum 
bled  brown  earth.  He  was  a  little  short  of  breath, 
and  his  eyes  were  flashing  with  excitement.  Never 
theless,  he  was  cool  enough  to  stop  Bromley's 
question  before  it  could  be  set  in  words. 

"  It  was  only  one  of  the  colonel's  Mexican  mine 
guards  trying  a  little  rifle  practice  in  the  dark,"  he 
explained;  and  before  there  could  be  any  com 
ment:  "  I  went  out  to  get  this,  Gardiner" — indicat 
ing  the  hatful  of  earth.  "It's  a  sample  of  some 
stuff  I'd  like  to  have  you  take  back  to  Boston  with 
you  for  a  scientific  analysis.  I've  got  just  enough 
of  the  prospector's  blood  in  me  to  make  me  curious 
about  it." 

The  geologist  examined  the  brown  earth  crit 
ically;  passed  a  handful  of  it  through  his  fingers; 
smelled  it;  tasted  it. 

"How  much  have  you  got  of  this?"  he  asked, 
with  interest  palpably  aroused. 

"Enough,"  rejoined  the  Kentuckian,  evasively. 

"Then  your  fortune  is  made,  my  son.  This 
'stuff,'  as  you  call  it,  is  the  basis  of  Colonel  Craig- 
miles's  millions.  I  hope  your  vein  isn't  a  part  of 
his." 

Again  Ballard  evaded  the  implied  question. 
"What  do  you  know  about  it,  Gardiner?  Have 
you  ever  seen  any  of  it  before  ?" 

290 


The  Geologist 

"I  have,  indeed.  More  than  that,  I  have 
'proved  up'  on  it,  as  your  Western  miners  say  of 
their  claims.  A  few  evenings  ago  we  were  talking 
of  expert  analyses — the  colonel  and  young  Wing- 
field  and  I — up  at  the  house  of  luxuries,  and  the 
colonel  ventured  to  wager  that  he  could  stump  me; 
said  he  could  give  me  a  sample  of  basic  material 
carrying  fabulous  values,  the  very  name  of  which  I 
wouldn't  be  able  to  tell  him  after  the  most  ex 
haustive  laboratory  tests.  Of  course,  I  had  to 
take  him  up — if  only  for  the  honour  of  the  Insti 
tute — and  the  three  of  us  went  down  to  his  labora 
tory.  The  sample  he  gave  me  was  some  of  this 
brown  earth." 

"And  you  analysed  it?"  inquired  Ballard  with 
eagerness  unconcealed. 

"I  did;  and  won  a  box  of  the  colonel's  high- 
priced  cigars,  for  which,  unhappily,  I  have  no 
possible  use.  The  sample  submitted,  like  this  in 
your  hat,  was  zirconia;  the  earth-ore  which  carries 
the  rare  metal  zirconium.  Don't  shame  me  and 
your  alma  mater  by  saying  that  this  means  nothing 
to  you." 

"  You've  got  us  down,"  laughed  Bromley.  "It's 
only  a  name  to  me;  the  name  of  one  of  the  the 
oretical  metals  cooked  up  in  laboratory  experi 
ments.  And  I  venture  to  say  it  is  even  less  than 
that  to  Breckenridge." 

291 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

"It  is  P  very  rare  metal,  and  up  to  within  a  few 
years  has  never  been  found  in  a  natural  state  or 
produced  in  commercial  quantities,"  explained  the 
analyst,  mounting  and  riding  his  hobby  with  ap 
parent  zest.  "A  refined  product  of  zirconia,  the 
earth  itself,  has  been  used  to  make  incandescent 
gas-mantles;  and  it  was  M.  Leoffroy,  of  Paris, 
who  discovered  a  method  of  electric-furnace  re 
duction  for  isolating  the  metal.  It  was  a  great 
discovery.  Zirconium,  which  is  exceedingly  dense 
and  practically  irreducible  by  wear,  is  supplanting 
iridium  for  the  pointing  of  gold  pens,  and  its  value 
for  that  purpose  is  far  in  excess  of  any  other  known 
substance." 

"But  Colonel  Craigmiles  never  ships  anything 
from  his  mine,  so  far  as  any  one  can  see,"  Ballard 
cut  in. 

"  No  ?  It  isn't  necessary.  He  showed  us  his 
reduction-plant — run  by  water-power  from  the 
little  dam  in  the  upper  canyon.  It  is  quite  perfect. 
You  will  understand  that  the  actual  quantity  of 
zirconium  obtained  is  almost  microscopic;  but 
since  it  is  worth  much  more  than  diamonds,  weight 
for  weight,  the  plant  needn't  be  very  extensive. 
And  the  fortunate  miner  in  this  instance  is  wholly 
independent  of  the  transportation  lines.  He  can 
carry  his  output  to  market  in  his  vest  pocket." 

After  this,  the  talk,  resolutely  shunted  by  Bal- 
292 


The  Geologist 

lard,  veered  aside  from  Arcadian  matters.  Later 
on,  when  Bromley  was  making  up  a  shake 
down  bed  in  the  rear  room  for  the  guest,  the  Ken- 
tuckian  went  out  on  the  porch  to  smoke.  It  was 
here  that  Bromley  found  him  after  the  Bostonian 
had  been  put  to  bed. 

"Now,  then,  I  want  to  know  where  you  got 
that  sample,  Breckenridge  ?"  he  demanded,  with 
out  preface. 

Ballard's  laugh  was  quite  cheerful. 

"  I  stole  it  out  of  one  of  the  colonel's  ore  bins  at 
the  entrance  of  the  mine  over  yonder." 

"I  thought  so.     And  the  shots?" 

"They  were  fired  at  me  by  one  of  the  Mexican 
night  guards,  of  course.  One  of  them  hit  the  hat 
as  I  was  running  away,  and  I  was  scared  stiff  for 
fear  Gardiner's  sharp  old  eyes  would  discover  the 
hole.  I'm  right  glad  for  one  thing,  Loudon;  and 
that  is  that  the  mine  is  really  a  mine.  Sometimes 
I've  been  tempted  to  suspect  that  it  was  merely  a 
hole  in  the  ground,  designed  and  maintained 
purely  for  the  purpose  of  cinching  the  Arcadia 
Company  for  damages." 

Bromley  sat  up  straight  and  his  teeth  came  to 
gether  with  a  little  click.  He  was  remembering 
the  professor's  talk  about  the  underlying  shales, 
and  a  possible  breach  into  them  above  the  dam 
when  he  said:  "Or  to—  "  but  the  sentence  was 

293 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

left  unfinished.     Instead,   he  fell  to   reproaching 
Ballard  for  his  foolhardiness. 

"Confound  you,  Breckenridge!  you  haven't 
sense  enough  to  stay  in  the  house  when  it's  raining 
out-of-doors!  The  idea  of  your  taking  such  reck 
less  chances  on  a  mere  whiff  of  curiosity!  Let  me 
have  a  pipeful  of  that  tobacco — unless  you  mean 
to  hog  that,  too — along  with  all  the  other  risky 
things." 


294 


XXI 

MR.  PELHAM'S  GAME-BAG 

THE  fete  champetre,  as  President  Pelham 
named  it  in  the  trumpet-flourish  of  an 
nouncement,  to  celebrate  the  laying  of  the  final 
stone  of  the  great  dam  at  the  outlet  of  Elbow 
Canyon,  anticipated  the  working  completion  of 
the  irrigation  system  by  some  weeks.  That  the 
canals  were  not  yet  in  readiness  to  furnish  water 
to  the  prospective  farmer  really  made  little  differ 
ence.  The  spectacular  event  was  the  laying  of 
the  top-stone;  and  in  the  promoter's  plans  a  well- 
arranged  stage-effect  was  of  far  greater  value  than 
any  actual  parcelling  out  of  the  land  to  intended 
settlers. 

Accordingly,  no  effort  was  spared  to  make  the 
celebration  an  enthusiastic  success.  For  days 
before  the  auspicious  one  on  which  the  guest  trains 
began  to  arrive  from  Alta  Vista  and  beyond,  the 
camp  force  spent  itself  in  setting  the  scene  for  the 
triumph.  The  spillway  gate,  designed  to  close  the 
cut-qff  tunnel  and  so  to  begin  the  impounding  of 
the  river,  was  put  in  place  ready  to  be  forced  down 

295 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

by  its  machinery;  the  camp  mesa  was  scraped  and 
raked  and  cleared  of  the  industrial  litter;  a  plat 
form  was  erected  for  the  orators  and  the  brass 
band;  a  towering  flagstaff — this  by  the  express 
direction  of  the  president — was  planted  in  the 
middle  of  the  mesa  parade  ground;  and  with  the 
exception  of  camp  cook  Garou,  busy  with  a  small 
army  of  assistants  over  the  barbecue  pits,  the  con 
struction  force  was  distributed  among  the  camps 
on  the  canals — this  last  a  final  touch  of  Mr.  Pel- 
ham's  to  secure  the  degree  of  exclusiveness  for  the 
celebration  which  might  not  have  been  attainable 
in  the  presence  of  an  outnumbering  throng  of 
workmen. 

In  the  celebration  proper  the  two  engineers  had 
an  insignificant  part.  When  the  trains  were  in 
and  side-tracked,  and  the  working  preliminaries 
were  out  of  the  way,  the  triumphal  programme,  as 
it  had  been  outlined  in  a  five-page  letter  from  the 
president  to  Ballard,  became  automatic,  moving 
smoothly  from  number  to  number  as  a  well- 
designed  masterpiece  of  the  spectacular  variety 
should.  There  were  no  hitches,  no  long  waits  for 
the  audience.  Mr.  Pelham,  carrying  his  two- 
hundred-odd  pounds  of  avoirdupois  as  jauntily  as 
the  youngest  promoter  of  them  all,  was  at  once 
the  genial  host,  the  skilful  organiser,  prompter, 
stage-manager,  chorus-leader;  playing  his  many 

296 


Mr.  Pelham's  Game-Bag 

parts  letter-perfect,  and  never  missing  a  chance  to 
gain  a  few  more  notches  on  the  winding-winch  of 
enthusiasm. 

While  the  band  and  the  orators  were  alternating, 
Ballard  and  Bromley,  off  duty  for  the  time,  lounged 
on  the  bungalow  porch  awaiting  their  cue.  There 
had  been  no  awkward  happenings  thus  far.  The 
trains  had  arrived  on  time;  the  carefully  staged 
spectacle  was  running  like  a  well-oiled  piece  of 
mechanism;  the  August  day,  despite  a  threatening 
mass  of  storm  cloud  gathering  on  the  distant  slopes 
of  the  background  mountain  range,  was  perfect; 
and,  thanks  to  Mr.  Pelham's  gift  of  leadership,  the 
celebrators  had  been  judiciously  wrought  up  to 
the  pitch  at  which  everything  was  applauded  and 
nothing  criticised.  Hence,  there  was  no  apparent 
reason  for  Ballard's  settled  gloom;  or  for  Brom 
ley's  impatience  manifesting  itself  in  sarcastic 
flings  at  the  company's  secretary,  an  ex-politician 
of  the  golden-tongued  tribe,  who  was  the  oratorical 
spellbinder  of  the  moment. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake!  will  he  never  saw  it  off  and 
let  us  get  that  stone  set?"  gritted  the  assistant, 
when  the  crowd  cheered,  and  the  mellifluous  flood, 
checked  for  the  applausive  instant,  poured  steadily 
on.  "Why  in  the  name  of  common  sense  did  Mr. 
Pelham  want  to  spring  this  batch  of  human  phono 
graphs  on  us!" 

297 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

"The  realities  will  hit  us  soon  enough,"  growled 
Ballard,  whose  impatience  took  the  morose  form. 
Then,  with  a  sudden  righting  of  his  tilted  camp- 
stool:  "Good  Lord,  Lo*udon!  Look  yonder — up 
the  canyon!" 

The  porch  outlook  commanded  a  view  of  the 
foothill  canyon,  and  of  a  limited  area  of  the  bowl- 
shaped  upper  valley.  At  the  canyon  head,  and  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  river,  three  double-seated 
buckboards  were  wheeling  to  disembark  their  pas 
sengers;  and  presently  the  Castle  'Cadia  house- 
party,  led  by  Colonel  Craigmiles  himself,  climbed 
the  left-hand  path  to  the  little  level  space  fronting 
the  mysterious  mine. 

"By  Jove!"  gasped  Bromley;  "I  nearly  had  a 
fit — I  thought  they  were  coming  over  here.  Now 
what  in  the  name  of 

"  It's  all  right,"  cut  in  Ballard,  irritably.  "  Why 
shouldn't  the  colonel  want  to  be  present  at  his  own 
funeral  ?  And  you  needn't  be  afraid  of  their 
coming  over  here.  The  colonel  wouldn't  wipe  his 
feet  on  that  mob  of  money-hunters  around  the 
band-stand.  See;  they  are  making  a  private  box 
of  the  mine  entrance." 

The  remark  framed  itself  upon  the  fact.  At 
the  colonel's  signal  the  iron-bound  tunnel  door  had 
swung  open,  and  Wingfield  and  Blacklock,  junior, 
with  the  help  of  the  buckboard  drivers,  were 

298 


Mr.  Pelham's  Game-Bag 

piling  timbers  on  the  little  plateau  for  the  party's 
seating. 

It  was  Colonel  Craigmiles's  own  proposal,  this 
descent  upon  the  commercial  festivities  at  the  dam; 
and  Elsa  had  yielded  only  after  exhausting  her 
ingenuity  in  trying  to  defeat  it.  She  had  known 
in  advance  that  it  could  not  be  defeated.  For 
weeks  her  father's  attitude  had  been  explainable 
only  upon  a  single  hypothesis;  one  which  she  had 
alternately  accepted  and  rejected  a  hundred  times 
during  the  two  years  of  dam-building;  and  this 
excursion  was  less  singular  than  many  other  con 
sequences  of  the  mysterious  attitude. 

She  was  recalling  the  mysteries  as  she  sat  on  the 
pile  of  timbers  with  Wingfield,  hearing  but  not 
heeding  the  resounding  periods  of  the  orator 
across  the  narrow  chasm.  With  the  inundation  of 
the  upper  valley  an  impending  certainty,  measur 
able  by  weeks  and  then  by  days,  and  now  by  hours, 
nothing  of  any  consequence  had  been  done  at 
Castle  'Cadia  by  way  of  preparing  for  it.  Coming 
down  early  one  morning  to  cut  flowers  for  the 
breakfast-table,  she  had  found  two  men  in  me 
chanics'  overclothes  installing  a  small  gasolene 
electric  plant  near  the  stables;  this,  she  supposed, 
was  for  the  house-lighting  when  the  laboratory 
should  be  submerged.  A  few  days  later  she 
had  come  upon  Otto,  the  chauffeur,  building  a 

299 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

light  rowboat   in    a    secluded  nook  in  the  upper 
canyon. 

But  beyond  these  apparently  trivial  precautions, 
nothing  had  been  done,  and  her  father  had  said  no 
word  to  her  or  to  the  guests  of  what  was  to  be  done 
when  the  closed-in  valley  should  become  a  lake  with 
Castle  'Cadia  for  its  single  island.  Meanwhile, 
the  daily  routine  of  the  country  house  had  gone  on 
uninterruptedly;  and  once,  when  Mrs.  Van  Bryck 
had  asked  her  host  what  would  happen  when  the 
floods  came,  Elsa  had  heard  her  father  laughingly 
assure  his  guest  in  the  presence  of  the  others  that 
nothing  would  happen. 

That  Wingfield  knew  more  than  these  surface 
indications  could  tell  the  keenest  observer,  Elsa 
was  well  convinced; how  much  more,  she  could  only 
guess.  But  one  thing  was  certain:  ever  since  the 
day  spent  with  Ballard  and  Bromley  and  Jerry 
Blacklock  at  the  construction  camp — the  day  of 
his  narrow  escape  from  death — the  playwright  had 
been  a  changed  man;  cynical,  ill  at  ease,  or  pro 
foundly  abstracted  by  turns,  and  never  less  com 
panionable  than  at  the  present  moment  while  he 
sat  beside  her  on  the  timber  balk,  scowling  up  and 
across  at  the  band-stand,  at  the  spellbound  throng 
ringing  it  in,  and  at  the  spellbinding  secretary 
shaming  the  pouring  torrent  in  the  ravine  below 
with  his  flood  of  rhetoric. 

300 


Mr.  Pelham's  Game-Bag 

"What  sickening  rot!"  he  scoffed  in  open  dis 
gust.  And  then:  "It  must  be  delightfully  com 
forting  to  Ballard  and  Bromley  to  have  that  wild 
ass  of  the  market-place  braying  over  their  work! 
Somebody  ought  to  hit  him." 

But  the  orator  was  preparing  to  do  a  little  of  the 
hitting,  himself.  The  appearance  of  the  party  at 
the  mine  entrance  had  not  gone  unremarked,  and 
the  company's  secretary  recognised  the  company's 
enemy  at  a  glance.  He  was  looking  over  the  heads 
of  the  celebrators  and  down  upon  the  group  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  narrow  chasm  when  he  said : 

"So,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  this  great  project, 
in  the  face  of  the  most  obstinate,  and,  I  may  say, 
lawless,  opposition;  in  spite  of  violence  and  petty 
obstruction  on  the  part  of  those  who  would  re 
joice,  even  to-day,  in  its  failure;  this  great  work 
has  been  carried  on  to  its  triumphant  conclusion, 
and  we  are  gathered  here  on  this  beautiful  morning 
in  the  bright  sunshine  and  under  the  shadow  of 
these  magnificent  mountains  to  witness  the  final  mo 
mentous  act  which  shall  add  the  finishing  stone  to 
this  grand  structure;  a  structure  which  shall  en 
dure  and  subserve  its  useful  and  fructifying  pur 
pose  so  long  as  these  mighty  mountains  rear  their 
snowy  heads  to  look  down  in  approving  majesty 
upon  a  desert  made  fair  and  beautiful  by  the  hand 
of  man." 

301 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

Hand-clappings,  cheers,  a  stirring  of  the  crowd, 
and  the  upstarting  of  the  brass  band  climaxed  the 
rhetorical  peroration,  and  Elsa  glanced  anxiously 
over  her  shoulder.  She  knew  her  father's  temper 
and  the  fierce  quality  of  it  when  the  provocation 
was  great  enough  to  arouse  it;  but  he  was  sitting 
quietly  between  Dosia  and  Madge  Cantrell,  and 
the  publicly  administered  affront  seemed  to  have 
missed  him. 

When  the  blare  of  brass  ceased,  the  mechanical 
part  of  the  spectacle  held  the  stage  for  a  few 
brief  minutes.  The  completing  stone  was  care 
fully  toggled  in  the  grappling-hooks  of  the  derrick- 
fall,  and  at  Ballard's  signal  the  hoisting  engine 
coughed  sharply,  besprinkling  the  spectators  lib 
erally  with  a  shower  of  cinders,  the  derrick-boom 
swung  around,  and  the  stone  was  lowered  cau 
tiously  into  its  place. 

With  a  final  rasping  of  trowels,  the  workmen 
finished  their  task,  and  Ballard  walked  out  upon 
the  abutment  and  laid  his  hand  on  the  wheel  con 
trolling  the  drop-gate  which  would  cut  off  the 
escape  of  the  river  through  the  outlet  tunnel. 
There  was  a  moment  of  impressive  silence,  and 
Elsa  held  her  breath.  The  day,  the  hour,  the  in 
stant  which  her  father  had  striven  so  desperately 
to  avert  had  come.  Would  it  pass  without  its 
tragedy  ? 

302 


Mr.  Pelham's  Game-Bag 

She  saw  Ballard  give  the  last  searching  glance 
at  the  gate  mechanism;  saw  President  Pelham 
step  out  to  give  the  signal.  Then  there  was  a  stir 
in  the  group  behind  her,  and  she  became  conscious 
that  her  father  was  on  his  feet;  that  his  voice  was 
dominating  the  droning  roar  of  the  torrent  and  the 
muttering  of  the  thunder  on  the  far-distant  heights. 

"Mistuh-uh  Pelham — and  you  otheh  gentle 
men  of  the  Arcadia  Company — you  have  seen  fit 
to  affront  me,  suhs,  in  the  most  public  manneh, 
befo'  the  members  of  my  family  and  my  guests. 
This  was  youh  privilege,  and  you  have  used  it 
acco'ding  to  youh  gifts.  Nevertheless,  it  shall  not 
be  said  that  I  failed  in  my  neighbo'ly  duty  at  this 
crisis.  Gentlemen,  when  you  close  that  gate " 

The  president  turned  impatiently  and  waved 
his  hand  to  Ballard.  The  band  struck  up  "The 
Star-Spangled  Banner,"  a  round  ball  of  bunting 
shot  to  the  top  of  the  flagstaff  over  the  band-stand 
and  broke  out  in  a  broad  flag,  and  Elsa  saw  the 
starting-wheel  turning  slowly  under  Ballard 's 
hand.  The  clapping  and  cheering  and  the  band 
clamour  drowned  all  other  sounds;  and  the  col- 
oners  daughter,  rising  to  stand  beside  Wingfield, 
felt  rather  than  heard  the  jarring  shock  of  a 
near-by  explosion  punctuating  the  plunge  of  the 
great  gate  as  it  was  driven  down  by  the  geared 
ower-screws. 

303 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

What  followed  passed  unnoticed  by  the  wildly 
cheering  spectators  crowding  the  canyon  brink  to 
see  the  foaming,  churning  torrent  recoil  upon  it 
self  and  beat  fiercely  upon  the  lowered  gate  and 
the  steep-sloped  wall  of  the  dam's  foundation 
courses.  But  Elsa  saw  Ballard  start  as  from  the 
touch  of  a  hot  iron;  saw  Bromley  run  out  quickly 
to  lay  hold  of  him.  Most  terrible  of  all,  she  turned 
swiftly  to  see  her  father  coming  out  of  the  mine 
entrance  with  a  gun  in  his  hands — saw  and  under 
stood. 

It  was  Wingfield,  seeing  all  that  she  saw  and 
understanding  quite  as  clearly,  who  came  to  her 
rescue  at  a  moment  when  the  bright  August  sun 
shine  was  filling  with  dancing  black  motes  for 
her. 

"  Be  brave ! "  he  whispered.  "  See — he  isn't  hurt 
much :  he  has  let  go  of  the  wheel,  and  Bromley 
is  only  steadying  him  a  bit."  And  then  to  the 
others,  with  his  habitual  air  of  bored  cheerfulness : 
"The  show  is  over,  good  people,  and  the  water  is 
rising  to  cut  us  off  from  luncheon.  Sound  the 
retreat,  somebody,  and  let's  mount  and  ride  before 
we  get  wet  feet." 

A  movement  toward  the  waiting  vehicles  fol 
lowed,  and  at  the  facing  about  Elsa  observed  that 
her  father  hastily  flung  the  rifle  into  the  mine 
tunnel-mouth;  and  had  a  fleeting  glimpse  of  Bal- 

3°4 


Mr.  Pelham's  Game-Bag 

lard  and  Bromley  walking  slowly  arm-in-arm 
toward  the  mesa  shore  along  the  broad  coping  of 
the  abutment. 

At  the  buckboards  Wingfield  stood  her  friend 
again.  "Send  Jerry  Blacklock  down  to  see  how 
serious  it  is,"  he  suggested,  coming  between  her 
and  the  others;  and  while  she  was  doing  it,  he 
held  the  group  for  a  final  look  down  the  canyon  at 
the  raging  flood  still  churning  and  leaping  at  its 
barriers  like  some  sentient  wild  thing  trapped  and 
maddened  with  the  first  fury  of  restraint. 

Young  Blacklock  made  a  sprinter's  record  on 
his  errand  and  was  back  almost  immediately.  Mr. 
Ballard  had  got  his  arm  pinched  in  some  way  at 
the  gate-head,  he  reported :  it  was  nothing  serious, 
and  the  Kentuckian  sent  word  that  he  was  sorry 
that  the  feeding  of  the  multitude  kept  him  from 
saying  so  to  Miss  Elsa  in  person.  Elsa  did  not 
dare  to  look  at  Wingfield  while  Blacklock  was 
delivering  his  message;  and  in  the  buckboard- 
seating  for  the  return  to  Castle  'Cadia,  she  con 
trived  to  have  Bigelow  for  her  companion. 

It  was  only  a  few  minutes  after  Jerry  Blacklock 
had  raced  away  up  the  canyon  path  with  his 
message  of  reassurance  that  Bromley,  following 
Ballard  into  the  office  room  of  the  adobe  bungalow 
and  locking  the  door,  set  to  work  deftly  to  dress 
and  bandage  a  deep  bullet-crease  across  the  mus- 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

cles  of  his  chief's  arm;    a  wound  painful  enough, 
but  not  disabling. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  now,  Breckenridge  ?" 
he  asked,  in  the  midst  of  the  small  surgical  service. 

"  I  haven't  any  more  thinks  coming  to  me,"  was 
the  sober  reply.  "And  it  is  not  specially  comfort 
ing  to  have  the  old  ones  confirmed.  You  are  sure 
it  was  the  colonel  who  fired  at  me  ?" 

"  I  saw  the  whole  thing;  all  but  the  actual  trig 
ger-pulling,  you  might  say.  When  Mr.  Pelham 
cut  him  off,  he  turned  and  stepped  back  into  the 
mouth  of  the  mine.  Then,  while  they  were  all 
standing  up  to  see  you  lower  the  gate,  I  heard  the 
shot  and  saw  him  come  out  with  the  gun  in  his 
hands.  I  was  cool  enough  that  far  along  to  take 
in  all  the  little  details :  the  gun  was  a  short-barrelled 
Winchester — the  holster-rifle  of  the  cow-punchers." 

"Ouch!"  said  Ballard,  wincing  under  the  ban 
daging.  Then:  "The  mysteries  have  returned, 
Loudon;  we  were  on  the  wrong  track — all  of  us. 
Wingfield  and  you  and  I  had  figured  out  that  the 
colonel  was  merely  playing  a  cold-blooded  game 
for  delay.  That  guess  comes  back  to  us  like  a 
fish-hook  with  the  bait  gone.  There  was  nothing, 
less  than  nothing,  to  be  gained  by  killing  me  to 
day." 

Bromley  made  the  negative  sign  of  assenting 
perplexity. 

306 


Mr.  Pelham's  Game-Bag 

"It's  miles  too  deep  for  me,"  he  admitted. 
"Three  nights  ago,  when  I  was  dining  at  Castle 
'Cadia,  Colonel  Craigmiles  spoke  of  you  as  a  father 
might  speak  of  the  man  whom  he  would  like  to 
have  for  a  son-in-law:  talked  about  the  good  old 
gentlemanly  Kentucky  stock,  and  all  that,  you 
know.  I  can't  begin  to  sort  it  out." 

"  I  am  going  to  sort  it  out,  some  day  when  I  have 
time,"  declared  Ballard;  and  the  hurt  being  tem 
porarily  repaired,  they  went  out  to  superintend  the 
arrangements  for  feeding  the  visiting  throng  in 
the  big  mess-tent. 

After  the  barbecue,  and  more  speech-making 
around  the  trestle-tables  in  the  mess-tent,  the  rail 
road  trains  were  brought  into  requisition,  and 
various  tours  of  inspection  through  the  park  ate 
out  the  heart  of  the  afternoon  for  the  visitors. 
Bromley  took  charge  of  that  part  of  the  entertain 
ment,  leaving  Ballard  to  nurse  his  sore  arm  and  to 
watch  the  slow  submersion  of  the  dam  as  the  rising 
flood  crept  in  little  lapping  waves  up  the  sloping 
back-wall. 

The  afternoon  sun  beat  fiercely  upon  the  de 
serted  construction  camp,  and  the  heat,  rarely 
oppressive  in  the  mountain-girt  altitudes,  was 
stifling.  Down  in  the  cook  camp,  Garou  and  his 
helpers  were  washing  dishes  by  the  crate  and  pre 
paring  the  evening  luncheon  to  be  served  after  the 

3°7 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

trains  returned;  and  the  tinkling  clatter  of  china 
was  the  only  sound  to  replace  the  year-long  clam 
our  of  the  industries  and  the  hoarse  roar  of  the 
river  through  the  cut-off. 

Between  his  occasional  strolls  over  to  the  dam 
and  the  canyon  brink  to  mark  the  rising  of  the 
water,  Ballard  sat  on  the  bungalow  porch  and 
smoked.  From  the  time-killing  point  of  view  the 
great  house  in  the  upper  valley  loomed  in  mirage- 
like  proportions  in  the  heat  haze;  and  by  three 
o'clock  the  double  line  of  aspens  marking  the 
river's  course  had  disappeared  in  a  broad  band  of 
molten  silver  half  encircling  the  knoll  upon  which 
the  mirage  mansion  swayed  and  shimmered. 

Ballard  wondered  what  the  house-party  was 
doing;  what  preparations,  if  any,  had  been  made 
for  its  dispersal.  For  his  own  satisfaction  he  had 
carefully  run  bench-levels  with  his  instruments 
from  the  dam  height  through  the  upper  valley. 
When  the  water  should  reach  the  coping  course, 
some  three  or  four  acres  of  the  house-bearing 
knoll  would  form  an  island  in  the  middle  of  the 
reservoir  lake.  The  house  would  be  completely 
cut  off,  the  orchards  submerged,  and  the  nearest 
shore,  that  from  which  the  roundabout  road  ap 
proached,  would  be  fully  a  half-mile  distant,  with 
the  water  at  least  ten  feet  deep  over  the  raised 
causeway  of  the  road  itself. 


Mr.  Pelham's  Game-Bag 

Surely  the  colonel  would  not  subject  his  guests 
to  the  inconvenience  of  a  stay  at  Castle  'Cadia 
when  the  house  would  be  merely  an  isolated  shel 
ter  upon  an  island  in  the  middle  of  the  great  lake, 
Ballard  concluded;  and  when  the  mirage  effect 
cleared  away  to  give  him  a  better  view,  he  got  out 
the  field-glass  and  looked  for  some  signs  of  the 
inevitable  retreat. 

There  were  no  signs,  so  far  as  he  could  deter 
mine.  With  the  help  of  the  glass  he  could  pick  out 
the  details  of  the  summer  afternoon  scene  on  the 
knoll-top;  could  see  that  there  were  a  number  of 
people  occupying  the  hammocks  and  lazy-chairs 
under  the  tree-pillared  portico;  could  make  out 
two  figures,  which  he  took  to  be  Bigelow  and  one 
of  the  Cantrell  sisters,  strolling  back  and  forth  in 
a  lovers'  walk  under  the  shade  of  the  maples. 

It  was  all  very  perplexing.  The  sweet-toned 
little  French  clock  on  its  shelf  in  the  office  room 
behind  him  had  struck  three,  and  there  were  only 
a  few  more  hours  of  daylight  left  in  Castle  'Cadia's 
last  day  as  a  habitable  dwelling.  And  yet,  if  he 
could  trust  the  evidence  of  his  senses,  the  castle's 
garrison  was  making  no  move  to  escape:  this 
though  the  members  of  it  must  all  know  that  the 
rising  of  another  sun  would  see  their  retreat  cut 
off  by  the  impounded  flood. 

After  he  had  returned  the  field-glass  to  its  case 
3°9 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

on  the  wall  of  the  office  the  ticking  telegraph  in 
strument  on  Bromley's  table  called  him,  signing 
"E — T,"  the  end-of-track  on  the  High  Line  Ex 
tension.  It  was  Bromley,  wiring  in  to  give  the 
time  of  the  probable  return  of  the  excursion  trains 
for  Garou's  supper  serving. 

"How  are  you  getting  on?"  clicked  Ballard, 
when  the  time  had  been  given. 

"Fine,"  was  the  answer.  "Everything  lovely, 
and  the  goose  honks  high.  Enthusiasm  to  burn, 
and  we're  burning  it.  Just  now  the  baa-lambs 
are  surrounding  Mr.  Pelham  on  the  canal  embank 
ment  and  singing  'For  he's  a  jolly  good  fellow'  at 
the  tops  of  their  voices.  It's  great,  and  we're  all 
hypnotised.  So  long;  and  take  care  of  that 
pinched  arm." 

After  Bromley  broke  and  the  wire  became  dumb, 
the  silence  of  the  deserted  camp  grew  more  op 
pressive  and  the  heat  was  like  the  breath  of  a 
furnace.  Ballard  smoked  another  pipe  on  the 
bungalow  porch,  and  when  the  declining  sun 
drove  him  from  this  final  shelter  he  crossed  the 
little  mesa  and  descended  the  path  to  the  ravine 
below  the  dam. 

Here  he  found  food  for  reflection,  and  a  thing 
to  be  done.  With  the  flow  of  the  river  cut  off,  the 
ground  which  had  lately  been  its  channel  was  laid 
bare;  and  recalling  Gardiner's  hint  about  the 

310 


Mr.  Pelham's  Game-Bag 

possible  insecurity  of  the  dam's  foundations,  he 
began  a  careful  examination  of  the  newly  turned 
leaf  in  the  record  of  the  great  chasm. 

What  he  read  on  the  freshly-turned  page  of  the 
uncovered  stream-bed  was  more  instructive  than 
reassuring.  The  great  pit  described  by  Gardiner 
was  still  full  of  water,  but  it  was  no  longer  a  foam 
ing  whirlpool,  and  the  cavernous  undercutting 
wrought  by  the  diverted  torrent  was  alarmingly 
apparent.  In  the  cut-off  tunnel  the  erosive  effect  of 
the  stream-rush  was  even  more  striking.  Dripping 
rifts  and  chasms  led  off  in  all  directions,  and  the 
promontory  which  gave  its  name  to  the  Elbow,  and 
which  formed  the  northern  anchorage  of  the  dam, 
had  been  mined  and  tunnelled  by  the  water  until 
it  presented  the  appearance  of  a  huge  hollow  tooth. 

The  extreme  length  of  the  underground  passage 
was  a  scant  five  hundred  feet;  but  what  with  the 
explorations  of  the  side  rifts — possible  only  after 
he  had  gone  back  to  the  bungalow  for  candles  and 
rubber  thigh-boots — the  engineer  was  a  good  half- 
hour  making  his  way  up  to  the  great  stop-gate 
with  the  rising  flood  on  its  farther  side.  Here  the 
burden  of  anxiety  took  on  a  few  added  pounds. 
There  was  more  or  less  running  water  in  the 
tunnel,  and  he  had  been  hoping  to  find  the  leak 
around  the  fittings  of  the  gate.  But  the  gate  was 
practically  tight. 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

"That  settles  it,"  he  mused  gloomily.  "It  is 
seeping  through  this  ghastly  honeycomb  some 
where,  and  it's  up  to  us  to  get  busy  with  the  con 
crete  mixers — and  to  do  it  quickly.  I  can't  imagine 
what  Braithwaite  was  thinking  of;  to  drive  this 
tunnel  through  one  of  nature's  compost  heaps,  and 
then  to  turn  a  stream  of  water  through  it." 

The  sun  was  a  fiery  globe  swinging  down  to  the 
sky-pitched  western  horizon  when  the  Kentuckian 
picked  his  way  out  of  the  dripping  caverns.  There 
were  two  added  lines  in  the  frown  wrinkling  be 
tween  his  eyes,  and  he  was  still  talking  to  himself 
in  terms  of  discouragement.  At  a  conservative 
estimate  three  months  of  time  and  many  thousands 
of  dollars  must  be  spent  in  lining  the  spillway 
tunnel  with  a  steel  tube,  and  in  plugging  the  cav 
erns  of  the  hollow  tooth  with  concrete.  And  in 
any  one  of  the  ninety  days  the  water  might  find  its 
increasing  way  through  the  "compost  heap"; 
whereupon  the  devastating  end  would  come 
swiftly. 

It  was  disheartening  from  every  point  of  view. 
Ballard  knew  nothing  of  the  financial  condition  of 
the  Arcadia  Company,  but  he  guessed  shrewdly 
that  Mr.  Pelham  would  be  reluctant  to  put  money 
into  work  that  could  not  be  seen  and  celebrated 
with  the  beating  of  drums.  None  the  less,  for  the 
safety  of  every  future  land  buyer  with  holdings 

312 


Mr.  Pelham's  Game-Bag 

below  the  great  dam,   the  work  must  be  done. 
Otherwise 

The  chief  engineer's  clean-cut  face  was  still 
wearing  the  harassed  scowl  when  Bromley,  return 
ing  with  the  excursionists,  saw  it  again. 

"The  grouch  is  all  yours,"  said  the  cheerful  one, 
comfortingly,  "and  you  have  a  good  right  and 
title  to  it.  It's  been  a  hard  day  for  you.  Is  the 
arm  hurting  like  sin?" 

"No;  not  more  than  it  has  to.  But  something 
else  is.  Listen,  Bromley."  And  he  briefed  the 
story  of  the  hollow-tooth  promontory  for  the 
assistant. 

"Great  ghosts! — worse  and  more  of  it!"  was 
Bromley's  comment.  Then  he  added:  "I've  seen 
a  queer  thing,  too,  Breckenridge:  the  colonel  has 
moved  out,  vanished,  taken  to  the  hills." 

"Out  of  Castle  'Cadia  ?  You're  mistaken. 
There  is  absolutely  nothing  doing  at  the  big  house: 
I've  been  reconnoitring  with  the  glass." 

"No,  I  didn't  mean  that,"  was  the  qualifying 
rejoinder.  "I  mean  the  ranch  outfit  down  in  the 
Park.  It's  gone.  You  know  the  best  grazing  at 
this  time  of  the  year  is  along  the  river:  well,  you 
won't  find  hair,  hoof  or  horn  of  the  colonel's  cattle 
anywhere  in  the  bottom  lands — not  a  sign  of  them. 
Also,  the  ranch  itself  is  deserted  and  the  corrals  are 
all  open." 

313 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

The  harassed  scowl  would  have  taken  on  other 
added  lines  if  there  had  been  room  for  them. 

"What  do  you  make  of  it,  Loudon  ? — what  does 
it  mean  ?" 

"You  can  search  me,"  was  the  puzzled  reply. 
"  But  while  you're  doing  it,  you  can  bet  high  that 
it  means  something.  To  a  man  up  a  tall  tree  it 
looks  as  if  the  colonel  were  expecting  a  flood.  Why 
should  he  expect  it?  What  does  he  know? — 
more  than  we  know?" 

"It's  another  of  the  cursed  mysteries,"  Ballard 
broke  out  in  sullen  anger.  "It's  enough  to  jar  a 
man's  sanity!" 

"Mine  was  screwed  a  good  bit  ofF  its  base  a 
long  time  ago,"  Bromley  confessed.  Then  he 
came  back  to  the  present  and  its  threatenings: 
"  I'd  give  a  month's  pay  if  we  had  this  crazy  city 
crowd  ofF  of  our  hands  and  out  of  the  Park." 

"We'll  get  rid  of  it  pretty  early.  I've  settled 
that  with  Mr.  Pelham.  To  get  his  people  back  to 
Denver  by  breakfast-time  to-morrow,  the  trains 
will  have  to  leave  here  between  eight  and  eight- 
thirty." 

"  That  is  good  news — as  far  as  it  goes.  Will  you 
tell  Mr.  Pelham  about  the  rotten  tooth — to-night, 
I  mean?" 

"I  certainly  shall,"  was  the  positive  rejoinder j 
and  an  hour  later,  when  the  evening  luncheon  in 

314 


Mr.  Pelham's  Game-Bag 

the  Dig  mess-tent  had  been  served,  and  the  crowd 
was  gathered  on  the  camp  mesa  to  wait  for  the 
fireworks,  Ballard  got  the  president  into  the  bun 
galow  office,  shut  the  door  on  possible  interrup 
tions,  and  laid  bare  the  discouraging  facts. 

Singularly  enough,  as  he  thought,  the  facts 
seemed  to  make  little  impression  upon  the  head  of 
Arcadia  Irrigation.  Mr.  Pelham  sat  back  in 
Macpherson's  home-made  easy-chair,  relighted 
his  cigar,  and  refused  to  be  disturbed  or  greatly 
interested.  Assuming  that  he  had  not  made  the 
new  involvement  plain  enough,  Ballard  went  over 
the  situation  again. 

"Another  quarter  of  a  million  will  be  needed," 
he  summed  up,  "and  we  shouldn't  lose  a  single 
day  in  beginning.  As  I  have  said,  there  seems  to 
be  considerable  seepage  through  the  hill  already, 
with  less  than  half  of  the  working  head  of  water 
behind  the  dam.  What  it  will  be  under  a  full  head, 
no  man  can  say." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  the  president,  easily. 
"A  new  boat  always  leaks  a  little.  The  cracks,  if 
there  are  any,  will  probably  silt  up  in  a  few  days 
— or  weeks." 

"That  is  a  possibility,"  granted  the  engineer; 
"  but  it  is  scarcely  one  upon  which  we  have  a  right 
to  depend.  From  what  the  secretary  of  the  com 
pany  said  in  his  speech  to-day,  I  gathered  that  the 

315 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

lands  under  the  lower  line  of  the  ditch  will  be  put 
upon  the  market  immediately;  that  settlers  may 
begin  to  locate  and  purchase  at  once.  That  must 
not  be  done,  Mr.  Pelham." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  any  man  who  would  buy  and  build 
in  the  bottom  lands  before  we  have  filled  that 
hollow  tooth  would  take  his  life  in  his  hands." 

The  president's  smile  was  blandly  genial. 

"  You've  been  having  a  pretty  strenuous  day  of 
it,  Mr.  Ballard,  and  I  can  make  allowances. 
Things  will  look  brighter  after  you  have  had  a 
good  night's  rest.  And  how  about  that  arm  ?  I 
didn't  quite  understand  how  you  came  to  hurt  it. 
Nothing  serious,  I  hope?" 

"The  arm  is  all  right,"  said  Ballard,  brusquely. 
Mr.  Pelham's  effort  to  change  the  subject  was  too 
crude  and  it  roused  a  spirit  of  bulldog  tenacity  in 
the  younger  man.  "You  will  pardon  me  if  I  go 
back  to  the  original  question.  What  are  we  going 
to  do  about  that  undermined  hill?" 

The  president  rose  and  dusted  the  cigar-ash 
from  his  coat-sleeve. 

"Just  at  present,  Mr.  Ballard,  we  shall  do 
nothing.  To-morrow  morning  you  may  put  your 
entire  force  on  the  ditch  work,  discharging  the 
various  camps  as  soon  as  the  work  is  done.  Let 
the  ' hollow  tooth'  rest  for  the  time.  If  a  mistake 


Mr.  Pelham's  Game-Bag 

has  been  made,  it's  not  your  mistake — or  Mr. 
Bromley's.  And  a  word  in  your  ear:  Not  a  sylla 
ble  of  your  very  natural  anxiety  to  any  one,  if  you 
please.  It  can  do  no  good;  and  it  might  do  a 
great  deal  of  harm.  I  shouldn't  mention  it  even 
10  Bromley,  if  I  were  you." 

"Not  mention  it? — to  Bromley?  But  Bromley 
knows;  and  we  agree  fully— 

"Well,  see  to  it  that  he  doesn't  talk.  And  now 
I  must  really  beg  to  be  excused,  Mr.  Ballard.  My 
duties  as  host " 

Ballard  let  him  go,  with  a  feeling  of  repulsive 
disgust  that  was  almost  a  shudder,  and  sat  for  a 
brooding  hour  in  silence  while  the  fireworks  sput 
tered  and  blazed  from  the  platform  on  the  mesa's 
edge  and  the  full  moon  rose  to  peer  over  the  back 
ground  range,  paling  the  reds  and  yellows  of  the 
rockets  and  bombs.  He  was  still  sitting  where 
the  president  had  left  him  when  Bromley  came  in 
to  announce  the  close  of  the  fete  champ  etre. 

"It's  all  over  but  the  shouting,  and  they  are 
taking  to  the  Pullmans.  You  don't  care  to  go  to 
the  foot  of  the  pass  with  one  of  the  trains,  do  you  ?" 

"  Not  if  you'll  go.  One  of  us  ought  to  stay  by 
the  dam  while  the  lake  is  filling,  and  I'm  the  one." 

"Of  course  you  are,"  said  Bromley,  cheerfully. 
"I'll  go  with  the  first  section;  I'm  good  for  that 
much  more,  I  guess;  and  I  can  come  back  from 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

Ackerman's  ranch  in  the  morning  on  one  of  the 
returning  engines."  Then  he  asked  the  question 
for  which  Ballard  was  waiting:  "How  did  Mr. 
Pelham  take  the  new  grief?" 

"He  took  it  too  easily;  a  great  deal  too 
easily,  Loudon.  I  tell  you,  there's  something  rot 
ten  in  Denmark.  He  was  as  cold-blooded  as  a  fish." 

Hoskins,  long  since  reinstated,  and  now  engine- 
man  of  the  first  section  of  the  excursion  train,  was 
whistling  for  orders,  and  Bromley  had  to  go. 

"I've  heard  a  thing  or  two  myself,  during  the 
day,"  he  averred.  "I'll  tell  you  about  them  in 
the  morning.  The  company's  secretary  has  been 
busy  making  stock  transfers  all  day — when  he 
wasn't  spellbinding  from  some  platform  or  other. 
There  is  something  doing — something  that  the 
baa-lambs  don't  suspect.  And  Mr.  Pelham  and 
his  little  inside  ring  are  doing  it." 

Ballard  got  up  and  went  to  the  door  with  the 
assistant. 

"And  that  isn't  the  worst  of  it,  Loudon,"  he 
said,  with  an  air  of  sudden  and  vehement  convic 
tion.  "This  isn't  an  irrigation  scheme  at  all,  it's 
a  stock  deal  from  beginning  to  end.  Mr.  Pelham 
knows  about  that  hollow  tooth;  he  knew  about  it 
before  I  told  him.  You  mark  my  words:  we'll 
never  get  orders  to  plug  that  tunnel!" 

Bromley  nodded  agreement.     "I've  been  work- 

318 


Mr.  Pelham's  Game-Bag 

ing  my  way  around  to  that,  too.  All  right;  so  let 
it  be.  My  resignation  goes  in  to-morrow  morn 
ing,  and  I  take  it  yours  will  ?" 

"It  will,  for  a  fact;  I've  been  half  sorry  I  didn't 
saw  it  off  short  with  Mr.  Pelham  when  I  had  him 
here.  Good-night.  Don't  let  them  persuade  you 
to  go  over  the  pass.  Stop  at  Ackerman's,  and  get 
what  sleep  you  can." 

Bromley  promised;  and  a  little  later,  Ballard, 
sitting  in  the  moonlight  on  the  office  porch,  heard 
the  trains  pull  out  of  the  yard  and  saw  the  twink 
ling  red  eyes  of  the  tail-lights  vanish  among  the 
rounded  hills. 

"Good-by,  Mr.  Howard  Pelham.  I  shouldn't 
be  shocked  speechless  if  you  never  came  back  to 
Arcadia,"  he  muttered,  apostrophising  the  depart 
ing  president  of  Arcadia  Irrigation.  Then  he  put 
away  the  business  entanglement  and  let  his  gaze 
wander  in  the  opposite  direction;  toward  the  great 
house  in  the  upper  valley. 

At  the  first  eastward  glance  he  sprang  up  with 
an  exclamation  of  astonishment.  The  old  king's 
palace  was  looming  vast  in  the  moonlight,  with  a 
broad  sea  of  silver  to  take  the  place  of  the  brown 
valley  level  in  the  bridging  of  the  middle  distance. 
But  the  curious  thing  was  the  lights,  unmistakable 
electrics,  as  aforetime,  twinkling  through  the  tree- 
crownings  of  the  knoll. 

319 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

The  Kentuckian  left  the  porch  and  went  to  the 
edge  of  the  mesa  cliff  to  look  down  upon  the  flood, 
rising  now  by  imperceptible  gradations  as  the  en 
larging  area  of  the  reservoir  lake  demanded  more 
water.  The  lapping  tide  was  fully  half  way  up 
the  back  wall  of  the  dam,  which  meant  that  the 
colonel's  power  plant  at  the  mouth  of  the  upper 
canyon  must  be  submerged  past  using.  Yet  the 
lights  were  on  at  Castle  'Cadia. 

While  he  was  speculating  over  this  new  mys 
tery,  the  head-lamps  of  an  automobile  came  in 
sight  on  the  roundabout  road  below  the  dam,  and 
presently  a  huge  tonneau  car,  well  filled,  rolled 
noiselessly  over  the  plank  bridge  and  pointed  its 
goblin  eyes  up  the  incline  leading  to  the  camp 
mesa.  When  it  came  to  a  stand  at  the  cliff's  edge, 
Ballard  saw  that  it  held  Mrs.  Van  Bryck,  Bigelow, 
and  one  of  the  Cantrell  girls  in  the  tonneau;  and 
that  Elsa  was  sharing  the  driving-seat  with  young 
Blacklock. 

"  Good  evening,  Mr.  Ballard,"  said  a  voice  from 
the  shared  half  of  the  driving-seat.  And  then: 
"We  are  trying  out  the  new  car — isn't  it  a  beauty  ? 
—and  we  decided  to  make  a  neighbourly  call. 
Aren't  you  delighted  to  see  us  ?  Please  say  you 
are,  anyway.  It  is  the  least  you  can  do." 


320 


XXII 
A  CRY  IN  THE  NIGHT 

THE  little  French  office  clock — Bromley's 
testimonial  from  his  enthusiastic  and  ad 
miring  classmates  of  the  Ecole  Polytechnique — had 
chimed  the  hour  of  ten;  the  August  moon  rose 
high  in  a  firmament  of  infinite  depths  above  the 
deserted  bunk  shanties  and  the  silent  machinery 
on  the  camp  mesa;  the  big  touring  car,  long  since 
cooled  from  its  racing  climb  over  the  hills  of  the 
roundabout  road,  cast  a  grotesque  and  fore 
shortened  shadow  like  that  of  a  dwarfed  band 
wagon  on  the  stone-chip  whiteness  of  the  cutting 
yard;  and  still  the  members  of  the  auto  party  lin 
gered  on  the  porch  of  the  adobe  bungalow. 

For  Ballard,  though  he  was  playing  the  part  of 
the  unprepared  host,  the  prolonged  stay  of  the 
Castle-'Cadians  was  an  unalloyed  joy.  When  he 
had  established  Mrs.  Van  Bryck  in  the  big  easy- 
chair,  reminiscent  of  Engineer  Macpherson  and 
his  canny  skill  with  carpenter's  tools,  and  had 
dragged  out  the  blanket-covered  divan  for  Miss 

321 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

Cantrell  and  Bigelow,  he  was  free.  And  freedom, 
at  that  moment,  meant  the  privilege  of  sitting  a 
little  apart  on  the  porch  step  with  Elsa  Craigmiles. 

For  the  first  time  in  weeks  the  Kentuckian  was 
able  to  invite  his  soul  and  to  think  and  speak  in 
terms  of  comfortable  unembarrassment.  The  long 
strain  of  the  industrial  battle  was  off,  and  Mr. 
Pelham's  triumphal  beating  of  drums  had  been 
accomplished  without  loss  of  life,  and  with  no 
more  serious  consequences  than  a  lamed  arm  for 
the  man  who  was  best  able  to  keep  his  own  coun 
sel.  Having  definitely  determined  to  send  in  his 
resignation  in  the  morning,  and  thus  to  avoid  any 
possible  entanglement  which  might  arise  when  the 
instability  of  the  great  dam's  foundations  should 
become  generally  known,  the  burden  of  responsi 
bility  was  immeasurably  lightened.  And  to  cap 
the  ecstatic  climax  in  its  sentimental  part,  Elsa's 
mood  was  not  mocking;  it  was  sympathetic  to  a 
heart-mellowing  degree. 

One  thing  only  sounded  a  jarring  note  in  the 
soothing  theme.  That  was  young  Blacklock's 
very  palpable  anxiety  and  restlessness.  When  the 
collegian  had  placed  the  big  car,  and  had  stopped 
its  motor  and  extinguished  its  lights,  he  had  be 
taken  himself  to  the  desert  of  stone  chips,  ram 
bling  therein  aimlessly,  but  never,  as  Ballard  ob 
served,  wandering  out  of  eye-reach  of  the  great 

322 


A  Cry  in  the  Night 

gray  wall  of  masonry,  of  the  growing  lake  in  the 
crooking  elbow  of  the  canyon,  and  the  path- 
girted  hillside  of  the  opposite  shore.  Blacklock's 
too  ostentatious  time-killing  was  the  latest  of  the 
small  mysteries;  and  when  the  Kentuckian  came 
to  earth  long  enough  to  remark  it,  he  fancied  that 
Jerry  was  waiting  for  a  cue  of  some  kind — waiting 
and  quite  obviously  watching. 

It  was  some  time  after  Mrs.  Van  Bryck,  plain 
tively  protesting  against  being  kept  out  so  late, 
had  begun  to  doze  in  her  chair,  and  Bigelow  had 
fetched  wraps  from  the  car  wherewith  to  cloak  a 
shuddery  Miss  Cantrell,  that  Ballard's  companion 
said,  guardedly:  "Don't  you  think  it  would  be  in 
the  nature  of  a  charity  to  these  two  behind  us 
if  we  were  to  share  Jerry's  wanderings  for  a 
while?" 

"I'm  not  sharing  with  Jerry — or  any  other  man 
—just  now,"  Ballard  objected.  None  the  less,  he 
rose  and  strolled  with  her  across  the  stone  yard; 
and  at  the  foot  of  the  great  derrick  he  pulled  out 
one  of  the  cutter's  benches  for  a  seat.  "This  is 
better  than  the  porch  step,"  he  was  saying,  when 
Blacklock  got  up  from  behind  a  rejected  thorough- 
stone  a  few  yards  away  and  called  to  him. 

'''  Just  a  minute,  Mr.  Ballard:  I've  got  a  corking 
big  rattler  under  this  rock.  Bring  a  stick,  if  you 
can  find  one." 

323 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

Ballard  found  a  stick  and  went  to  the  help  of 
the  snake-catcher. 

"Don't  give  him  a  chance  at  you,  Jerry,"  he 
warned.  "Where  is  he  ?" 

The  collegian  drew  him  around  to  the  farther 
side  of  the  great  thorough-block. 

"It  was  only  a  leg-pull,"  was  the  low-toned  ex 
planation.  "I've  been  trying  all  evening  to  get  a 
word  with  you,  and  I  had  to  invent  the  snake. 
Wingfield  says  we're  all  off  wrong  on  the  mystery 
chase — 'way  off.  You're  to  watch  the  dam— 
that's  what  he  told  me  to  tell  you;  watch  it  close 
till  he  comes  down  here  from  Castle  'Cadia." 

"Watch  the  dam?"  queried  the  engineer. 
"What  am  I  to  look  for?" 

"I  don't  know  another  blessed  thing  about  it. 
But  there's  something  doing;  something  bigger 
than — 'sh!  Miss  Elsa's  asking  about  the  snake. 
Cut  it  out — cut  it  all  out!" 

"It  was  a  false  alarm,"  Ballard  explained,  when 
he  rejoined  his  companion  at  the  derrick's  foot 
"  Jerry  has  an  aggravated  attack  of  imagination- 
itis.  You  were  saying —  —  ?" 

"  I  wasn't  saying  anything;  but  I  shall  begin 
now — if  you'll  sit  down.  You  must  be  dying  to 
know  why  we  came  down  here  to-night,  of  all  the 
nights  that  ever  were;  and  why  we  are  staying  so 
long  past  our  welcome." 

324 


A  Cry  in  the  Night 

"I  never  felt  less  like  dying  since  the  world 
began;  and  you  couldn't  outstay  your  welcome  if 
you  should  try,"  he  answered,  out  of  a  full  heart. 
"My  opportunities  to  sit  quietly  in  blissful  near 
ness  to  you  haven't  been  so  frequent  that  I  can 
afford  to  spoil  this  one  with  foolish  queryings 
about  the  whys  and  wherefores." 

"Hush!"  she  broke  in  imperatively.  "You  are 
saying  light  things  again  in  the  very  thick  of  the 
miseries!  Have  you  forgotten  that  to-day — a  few 
hours  ago — another  attempt  was  made  upon  your 
life?" 

"No;    I  haven't  forgotten,"  he  admitted. 

"Be  honest  with  me,"  she  insisted.  "You 
are  not  as  indifferent  as  you  would  like  to 
have  me  believe.  Do  you  know  who  made  the 
attempt?" 


"Yes."  He  answered  without  realising  that 
the  single  word  levelled  all  the  carefully  raised 
barriers  of  concealment;  and  when  the  realisation 
came,  he  could  have  bitten  his  tongue  for  its  in 
cautious  slip. 

"Then  you  doubtless  know  who  is  responsible 
for  all  the  terrible  happenings;  the — the  crimes  ?  ' 

Denial  was  useless  now,  and  he  said  "Yes," 
again. 

"How  long  have  you  known  this?" 

"I  have  suspected  it  almost  from  the  first." 
325 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

She  turned  upon  him  like  some  wild  creature  at 
bay. 

"Why  are  you  waiting  ?  Why  haven't  you  had 
him  arrested  and  tried  and  condemned,  like  any 
other  common  murderer?" 

He  regarded  her  gravely,  as  the  hard,  white 
moonlight  permitted.  No  man  ever  plumbs  a 
woman's  heart  in  its  ultimate  depths;  least  of  all 
the  heart  of  the  woman  he  knows  best  and  loves 
most. 

"You  seem  to  overlook  the  fact  that  I  am  his 
daughter's  lover,"  he  said,  as  if  the  simple  fact 
settled  the  matter  beyond  question. 

"And  you  have  never  sought  for  an  explana 
tion  ? — beyond  the  one  which  would  stamp  him 
as  the  vilest,  the  most  inhuman  of  criminals  ?" 
she  went  on,  ignoring  his  reason  for  condoning  the 
crimes. 

"I  have;  though  quite  without  success,  I  think 
—until  to-day." 

"But  to-day?"  she  questioned,  anxiously,  ea 
gerly. 

He  hesitated,  picking  and  choosing  among  the 
words.  And  in  the  end  he  merely  begged  her  to 
help  him.  "To-day,  hope  led  me  over  into  the 
valley  of  a  great  shadow.  Tell  me,  Elsa,  dear: 
is  your  father  always  fully  accountable  for  his 
actions?" 

326 


A  Cry  in  the  Night 

Her  hands  were  tightly  clasped  in  her  lap,  and 
there  were  tense  lines  of  suffering  about  the  sweet 
mouth. 

"You  have  guessed  the  secret — my  secret,"  she 
said,  with  the  heart-break  in  her  tone.  And  then: 
"Oh,  you  don't  know,  you  can't  imagine,  what 
terrible  agonies  I  have  endured :  and  alone,  always 
alone!" 

"Tell  me,"  he  commanded  lovingly.  "I  have  a 
good  right  to  know." 

"The  best  right  of  all:  the  right  of  a  patient  and 
loving  friend."  She  stopped,  and  then  went  on  in 
the  monotone  of  despair:  "It  is  in  the  blood — a 
dreadful  heritage.  Do  you — do  you  know  how 
your  father  died,  Breckenridge  ?" 

"Not  circumstantially;  in  an  illness,  I  have  been 
told.  I  was  too  young  to  know  anything  more 
than  I  was  told;  too  young  to  feel  the  loss.  Did 
some  one  tell  me  it  was  a  fever  ?" 

"It  was  not  a  fever,"  she  said  sorrowfully. 
"He  was  poisoned — by  a  horrible  mistake.  My 
father  and  his  brother  Abner  were  practising  phy 
sicians  in  Lexington,  your  old  home  and  ours; 
both  of  them  young,  ardent  and  enthusiastic  in 
their  profession.  Uncle  Abner  was  called  to  pre 
scribe  for  your  father — his  life-long  friend — in 
a  trivial  sickness.  By  some  frightful  mistake, 
the  wrong  drug  was  given  and  your  father  died. 

327 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

Poor  Uncle  Abner  paid  for  it  with  his  reason, 
and,  a  few  months  later,  with  his  own  life.  And 
a  little  while  after  his  brother's  death  in  the 
asylum,  Father  threw  up  his  practice  and  his 
profession,  and  came  here  to  bury  himself  in 
Arcadia." 

The  Kentuckian  remembered  Colonel  Craig- 
miles's  sudden  seizure  at  his  first  sight  of  the  dead 
Ballard's  son,  and  saw  the  pointing  of  it.  Never 
theless,  he  said,  soberly:  "That  proves  nothing, 
you  know." 

"Nothing  of  itself,  perhaps.  But  it  explains  all 
the  fearful  things  I  have  seen  with  my  own  eyes. 
Two  years  ago,  after  the  trouble  with  Mr.  Braith- 
waite,  father  seemed  to  change.  He  became  bit 
terly  vindictive  against  the  Arcadia  Company,  and 
at  times  seemed  to  put  his  whole  soul  into  the 
%ht  against  it.  Then  the  accidents  began  to 
happen,  and — oh,  I  can't  tell  you  the  dreadful 
things  I  have  seen,  or  the  more  dreadful  ones  I 
have  suspected!  I  have  watched  him — followed 
him — when  he  did  not  suspect  it.  After  dinner,  the 
night  you  arrived,  he  left  us  all  on  the  portico  at 
Castle  'Cadia,  telling  me  that  he  was  obliged  to 
come  down  here  to  the  mine.  Are  you  listening  ?" 

"You  needn't  ask  that:   please  go  on." 

"I  thought  it  very  strange;  that  he  would  let 
even  a  business  errand  take  him  away  from  us  on 

328 


A  Cry  in  the  Night 

our  first  evening;  and  so  I — I  made  an  excuse  to 
the  others  and  followed  him.  Breckenridge,  I  saw 
him  throw  the  stone  from  the  top  of  that  cliff — the 
stone  that  came  so  near  killing  you  or  Mr.  Brom 
ley,  or  both  of  you." 

There  had  been  a  time  when  he  would  have 
tried  to  convince  her  that  she  must  doubt  the  evi 
dence  of  her  own  senses;  but  now  it  was  too  late: 
that  milestone  had  been  passed  in  the  first  broken 
sentence  of  her  pitiful  confession. 

"  There  was  no  harm  done,  that  time,"  he  said, 
groping  loyally  for  the  available  word  of  com 
forting. 

"It  was  God's  mercy,"  she  asserted.  "But 
listen  again:  that  other  night,  when  Mr.  Bromley 
was  hurt  .  .  .  After  you  had  gone  with  the 
man  who  came  for  you,  I  hurried  to  find  my 
father,  meaning  to  ask  him  to  send  Otto  in  the 
little  car  to  see  if  there  was  anything  we  could  do. 
Aunt  June  said  that  father  was  lying  down  in  the 
library:  he  was  not  there.  I  ran  up-stairs.  His 
coat  and  waistcoat  were  on  the  bed,  and  his  mack 
intosh — the  one  he  always  wears  when  he  goes  out 
after  sundown — was  gone.  After  a  little  while  he 
came  in,  hurriedly,  secretly,  and  he  would  not  be 
lieve  me  when  I  told  him  Mr.  Bromley  was  hurt;  he 
seemed  to  be  sure  it  must  be  some  one  else.  Then 
I  knew.  He  had  gone  out  to  waylay  you  on  your 

329 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

walk  back  to  the  camp,  and  by  some  means  had 
mistaken  Mr.  Bromley  for  you." 

She  was  in  the  full  flood-tide  of  the  heart-broken 
confession  now,  and  in  sheer  pity  he  tried  to 
stop  her. 

"Let  it  all  go,"  he  counselled  tenderly.  "What 
is  done,  is  done;  and  now  that  the  work  here 
is  also  done,  there  will  be  no  more  trouble  for 
you." 

"No;  I  must  go  on,"  she  insisted.  "Since 
others,  who  have  no  right  to  know,  have  found 
out,  I  must  tell  you." 

"Others?"  he  queried. 

"Yes:  Mr.  Wingfield,  for  one.  Unlike  you,  he 
has  not  tried  to  be  charitable.  He  believes — 

"He  doesn't  love  you  as  I  do,"  Ballard  inter 
rupted  quickly. 

"He  doesn't  love  me  at  all — that  way;  it's 
Dosia.  Hadn't  you  suspected  ?  That  was  why 
he  joined  Aunt  Janet's  party — to  be  with  Dosia." 

"Thus  vanishes  the  final  shadow:  there  is 
nothing  to  come  between  us  now,"  he  exulted; 
and  his  unhurt  arm  drew  her  close. 

"Don't!"  she  shuddered,  shrinking  away  from 
him.  "That  is  the  bitterest  drop  in  the  cup  of 
misery.  You  refuse  to  think  of  the  awful  heritage 
I  should  bring  you;  but  I  think  of  it — day  and 
night.  When  your  telegram  came  from  Boston  to 

33° 


A  Cry  in  the  Night 

Mr.  Lassley  at  New  York,  I  was  going  with  the 
Lassleys — not  to  Norway,  but  to  Paris,  to  try  to 
persuade  Doctor  Perard,  the  great  alienist,  to  come 
over  and  be  our  guest  at  Castle  'Cadia.  It  seemed 
to  be  the  only  remaining  hope.  But  when  you 
telegraphed  your  changed  plans,  I  knew  I  couldn't 
go;  I  knew  I  must  come  home.  And  in  spite  of  all, 
he  has  tried  three  times  to  kill  you.  You  know  he 
must  be  insane;  tell  me  you  know  it,"  she  pleaded. 

"Since  it  lifts  a  burden  too  heavy  to  be  borne, 
I  am  very  willing  to  believe  it,"  he  rejoined  gravely. 
"I  understand  quite  fully  now.  And  it  makes  no 
difference — between  us,  I  mean.  You  must  not 
let  it  make  a  difference.  Let  the  past  be  past,  and 
let  us  come  back  to  the  present.  Where  is  your 
father  now  ?" 

"After  dinner  he  went  with  Mr.  Wingfield  and 
Otto  to  the  upper  canyon.  There  is  a  breakwater 
at  the  canyon  portal  which  they  hoped  might  save 
the  power-house  and  laboratory  from  being  under 
mined  by  the  river,  and  they  were  going  to 
strengthen  it  with  bags  of  sand.  I  was  afraid  of 
what  might  come  afterward — that  you  might  be 
here  alone  and  unsuspecting.  So  I  persuaded 
Cousin  Janet  and  the  others  to  make  up  the  car- 
party." 

From  where  they  were  sitting  at  the  derrick's 
foot,  the  great  boom  leaned  out  like  a  giant's  arm 

331 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

uplifted  above  the  canyon  lake.  With  the  moon 
sweeping  toward  the  zenith,  the  shadow  of  the 
huge  iron  beam  was  clearly  cut  on  the  surface  of 
the  water.  Ballard's  eye  had  been  mechanically 
marking  the  line  of  shadow  and  its  changing  posi 
tion  as  the  water  level  rose  in  the  Elbow. 

"The  reservoir  is  filling  a  great  deal  faster  than 
I  supposed  it  would,"  he  said,  bearing  his  com 
panion  resolutely  away  from  the  painful  things. 

"There  have  been  storms  on  the  main  range  all 
day,"  was  the  reply.  "Father  has  a  series  of 
electrical  signal  stations  all  along  the  upper  can 
yon.  He  said  at  the  dinner-table  that  the  rise  to 
night  promises  to  be  greater  than  any  we  have 


ever  seen." 


Ballard  came  alive  upon  the  professional  side 
of  him  with  a  sudden  quickening  of  the  workaday 
faculties.  With  the  utmost  confidence  in  that 
part  of  the  great  retaining-wall  for  which  he  was 
personally  responsible — the  superstructure — he 
had  still  been  hoping  that  the  huge  reservoir  lake 
would  fill  normally;  that  the  dam  would  not  be 
called  upon  to  take  its  enormous  stresses  like  an 
engine  starting  under  a  full  load.  It  was  for  this 
reason  that  he  had  been  glad  to  time  the  closing 
of  the  spillway  in  August,  when  the  flow  of  the 
river  was  at  its  minimum.  But  fate,  the  persistent 
ill-fortune  which  had  dogged  the  Arcadian  enter- 

332 


A  Cry  in  the  Night 

prise  from  the  beginning,  seemed  to  be  gathering 
its  forces  for  a  final  blow. 

"Cloud-bursts  ?"  he  questioned.  "Are  they 
frequent  in  the  head  basin  of  the  Boiling  Water  ?" 

"Not  frequent,  but  very  terrible  when  they  do 
occur.  I  have  seen  the  Elbow  toss  its  spray  to 
the  top  of  this  cliff — once,  when  I  was  quite  small; 
and  on  that  day  the  lower  part  of  our  valley  was, 
for  a  few  hours,  a  vast  flood  lake." 

"Was  that  before  or  after  the  opening  of  your 
father's  mine  over  yonder?"  queried  Ballard. 

"  It  was  after.  I  suppose  the  mine  was  flooded, 
and  I  remember  there  was  no  work  done  in  it  for 
a  long  time.  When  it  was  reopened,  a  few  years 
ago,  father  had  that  immense  bulkhead  and  heavy, 
water-tight  door  put  in  to  guard  against  another 
possible  flood." 

Ballard  made  the  sign  of  comprehension.  Here 
was  one  of  the  mysteries  very  naturally  accounted 
for.  The  bulkhead  and  iron-bound  door  of  the 
zirconium  mine  were,  indeed,  fortifications;  but 
the  enemy  to  be  repulsed  was  nature — not  man. 

"And  the  electric  signal  service  system  in  the 
upper  canyon  is  apart  of  the  defence  for  the  mine  ?" 
he  predicated. 

"Yes.  It  has  served  on  two  or  three  occasions 
to  give  timely  warning  so  that  the  miners  could 
come  up  and  seal  the  door  in  the  bulkhead.  But 

333 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

it  has  been  a  long  time  since  a  cloud-burst  flood 
has  risen  high  enough  in  the  Elbow  to  threaten  the 


mine." 


Silence  supervened;  the  silence  of  the  flooding 
moonlight,  the  stark  hills  and  the  gently  lapping 
waters.  Ballard's  brain  was  busy  with  the  newly 
developed  responsibilities.  There  was  a  little 
space  for  action,  but  what  could  be  done  ?  In  all 
probability  the  newly  completed  dam  was  about 
to  be  subjected  to  the  supreme  test,  violently  and 
suddenly  applied.  The  alternative  was  to  open 
the  spillway  gate,  using  the  cut-off  tunnel  as  a 
sort  of  safety-valve  when  the  coming  flood  water 
should  reach  the  Elbow. 

But  there  were  an  objection  and  an  obstacle. 
Now  that  he  knew  the  condition  of  the  honey 
combed  tunnel,  Ballard  hesitated  to  make  it  the 
raceway  for  the  tremendously  augmented  torrent. 
And  for  the  obstacle  there  was  a  mechanical  diffi 
culty:  with  the  weight  of  the  deepening  lake  upon 
it,  the  stop-gate  could  be  raised  only  by  the  power- 
screws;  and  the  fires  were  out  in  the  engine  that 
must  furnish  the  power. 

The  Kentuckian  was  afoot  and  alert  when  he 
said:  "You  know  the  probabilities  better  than  any 
of  us :  how  much  time  have  we  before  these  flood 
tides  will  come  down  ?" 

She  had  risen  to  stand  with  him,  steadying  her- 
334 


A  Cry  in  the  Night 

self  by  the  hook  of  the  derrick-fall.  *'I  don't 
know,"  she  began;  and  at  that  instant  a  great 
slice  of  the  zirconium  mine  dump  slid  off  and  set 
tled  into  the  eddying  depths  with  a  splash. 

"It  is  nothing  but  a  few  more  cubic  yards  of  the 
waste,"  he  said,  when  she  started  and  caught  her 
breath  with  a  little  gasp. 

"Not  that — but  the  door!"  she  faltered,  pointing 
across  the  chasm.  "It  was  shut  when  we  came 
out  here — I  am  positive!" 

The  heavy,  iron-studded  door  in  the  bulkhead 
was  open  now,  at  all  events,  as  they  could  both 
plainly  see;  and  presently  she  went  on  in  a  fright 
ened  whisper:  "Look!  there  is  something  moving 
— this  side  of  the  door — among  the  loose  timbers!" 

The  moving  object  defined  itself  clearly  in  the 
next  half-minute;  for  the  two  at  the  derrick-heel, 
and  for  another — young  Blacklock,  who  was 
crouching  behind  his  rejected  thorough-stone  di 
rectly  opposite  the  mine  entrance.  It  took  shape 
as  the  figure  of  a  man,  slouch-hatted  and  muffled 
in  a  long  coat,  creeping  on  hands  and  knees  toward 
the  farther  dam-head;  creeping  by  inches  and 
dragging  what  appeared  to  be  a  six-foot  length  of 
iron  pipe.  The  king's  daughter  spoke  again,  and 
this  time  her  whisper  was  full  of  sharp  agony. 

"Breckenridge!  it  is  my  father — just  as  I  have 
seen  him  before!  That  thing  he  is  dragging  after 

335 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

him:  isn't  it  a — merciful  Heaven!  he  is  going  to 
blow  up  the  dam!  Oh,  for  pity's  sake  can't  you 
think  of  some  way  to  stop  him  ?" 

There  are  crises  when  the  mind,  acting  like  a 
piece  of  automatic  machinery,  flies  from  sugges 
tion  to  conclusion  with  such  facile  rapidity  that 
all  the  intermediate  steps  are  slurred  and  effaced. 
Ballard  marked  the  inching  advance,  realised  its 
object  and  saw  that  he  would  not  have  time  to 
intervene  by  crossing  the  dam,  all  in  the  same  in 
stant.  Another  click  of  the  mental  mechanism 
and  the  alternative  suggested  itself,  was  grasped, 
weighed,  accepted  and  transmuted  into  action. 

It  was  a  gymnast's  trick,  neatly  done.  The 
looped-up  derrick-fall  was  a  double  wire  cable, 
running  through  a  heavy  iron  sheave  which  carried 
the  hook  and  grappling  chains.  Released  from  its 
rope  lashings  at  the  mast-heel,  it  would  swing  out 
and  across  the  canyon  like  a  monster  pendulum. 
Ballard  forgot  his  bandaged  arm  when  he  laid  hold 
of  the  sheave-hook  and  slashed  at  the  yarn  seizings 
with  his  pocket-knife;  was  still  oblivious  to  it 
when  the  released  pendulum  surged  free  and  swept 
him  out  over  the  chasm. 


336 


XXIII 
DEEP  UNTO  DEEP 

MECHANICALLY  as  such  things  are  done, 
Ballard  remembered  afterward  that  he  was 
keenly  alive  to  all  that  was  passing.  He  heard 
Elsa's  half-stifled  cry  of  horror,  Blacklock's  shout 
of  encouragement  from  some  point  higher  up  on 
the  mesa,  and  mingled  with  these  the  quick  pad- 
pad  of  footfalls  as  of  men  running.  In  mid-air  he 
had  a  glimpse  of  the  running  men;  two  of  them 
racing  down  the  canyon  on  the  side  toward  which 
his  swinging  bridge  was  projecting  him.  Then 
the  derrick-fall  swept  him  on,  reached  the  extreme 
of  its  arc,  and  at  the  reversing  pause  he  dropped, 
all  fingers  to  clutch  and  tensely  strung  muscles  to 
hold,  fairly  upon  the  crouching  man  in  the  muf 
fling  rain-coat. 

For  Blacklock,  charging  in  upon  the  battle-field 
by  way  of  the  dam,  the  happenings  of  the  next 
half-minute  resolved  themselves  into  a  fierce  hand- 
to-hand  struggle  between  the  two  men  for  the 
possession  of  the  piece  of  iron  pipe.  At  the 

337 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

pendulum-swinging  instant,  the  collegian  had  seen 
the  sputtering  flare  of  a  match  in  the  dynamiter's 
hands;  and  in  the  dash  across  the  dam  he  had  a 
whiff  of  burning  gunpowder. 

When  the  two  rose  up  out  of  the  dust  of  the 
grapple,  Ballard  was  the  victor.  He  had  wrested 
the  ignited  pipe-bomb  from  his  antagonist,  and 
turning  quickly  he  hurled  it  in  a  mighty  javelin- 
cast  far  up  the  Elbow.  There  was  a  splash,  a 
smothered  explosion,  and  a  geyser-like  column  of 
water  shot  up  from  the  plunging-point,  spouting 
high  to  fall  in  sheets  of  silver  spray  upon  the 
two  upcoming  runners  who  were  alertly  springing 
from  foothold  to  foothold  across  the  dissolving 
mine  dump. 

So  much  young  Blacklock  noted  at  the  moment 
of  uprushing.  In  the  next  breath  he  had  wrapped 
the  mackintoshed  bomb-firer  in  a  wrestler's  hug 
from  behind,  and  the  knife  raised  to  be  driven  into 
Ballard's  back  clattered  upon  the  stones  of  the 
path.  There  was  a  gasping  oath  in  a  strange 
tongue,  a  fierce  struggle  on  the  part  of  the  garroted 
one  to  turn  and  face  his  new  assailant,  and  then 
the  collegian,  with  his  chin  burrowing  between  the 
shoulder-blades  of  his  man,  heard  swift  footsteps 
approaching  and  a  deep-toned,  musical  voice 
booming  out  a  sharp  command:  "Manuel!  you 
grand  scoundrel! — drop  that  thah  gun,  suh'" 

338 


Deep  Unto  Deep 

Something  else,  also  metallic,  and  weightier  than 
the  knife,  clicked  upon  the  stones;  whereupon 
Blacklock  loosed  his  strangler's  grip  and  stepped 
back.  Ballard  stooped  to  pick  up  the  knife  and 
the  pistol.  Wingfield,  who  had  been  the  colonel's 
second  in  the  race  along  the  hazardous  mine  path, 
drew  aside;  and  master  and  man  were  left  facing 
each  other. 

The  Mexican  straightened  up  and  folded  his 
arms.  He  was  breathing  hard  from  the  effect  of 
Blacklock's  gripping  hug,  but  his  dark  face  was  as 
impassive  as  an  Indian's.  The  white-haired  King 
of  Arcadia  turned  to  Ballard,  and  the  mellow  voice 
broke  a  little. 

"Mistuh-uh  Ballard,  you,  suh,  are  a  Ken- 
tuckian,  of  a  race  that  knows  to  the  fullest  extent 
the  meaning  of  henchman  loyalty.  You  shall  say 
what  is  to  be  done  with  this  po'  villain  of  mine. 
By  his  own  confession,  made  to  me  this  afte'noon, 
he  is  a  cutthroat  and  an 'assassin.  Undeh  a  mis 
taken  idea  of  loyalty  to  me" — the  deep  voice  grew 
more  tremulous  at  this — "undeh  a  mistaken  idea 
of  loyalty  to  me,  suh,  he  has  been  fighting  in  his 
own  peculiah  fashion  what  he  conceived  to  be  my 
battle  with  the  Arcadia  Company.  Without  com 
punction,  without  remo'se,  he  has  taken  nearly  a 
score  of  human  lives  since  the  day  when  he  killed 
the  man  Braithwaite  and  flung  his  body  into  the 

339 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

riveh.  Am  I  making  it  cleah  to  you,  Mistuh 
Ballard?" 

How  he  managed  to  convey  his  sense  of  entire 
comprehension,  Ballard  scarcely  knew.  One 
thought  was  submerging  all  others  under  a  mount 
ing  wave  of  triumphant  joy:  Colonel  Adam,  the 
father  of  the  princess  of  heart's  delight,  was  neither 
a  devil  in  human  guise  nor  a  homicidal  madman. 
Elsa's  trouble  was  a  phantom  appeased;  it  had 
vanished  like  the  dew  on  a  summer  morning. 

"I  thank  you,  suh,"  was  the  courtly  acknowl 
edgment;  and  then  the  deep  voice  continued, 
with  an  added  note  of  emotion.  "  I  am  not  plead 
ing  for  the  murderer,  but  for  my  po'  liegeman  who 
knew  no  law  of  God  or  man  higheh  than  what  he 
mistakenly  took  to  be  his  masteh's  desiah.  How 
long  all  this  would  have  continued,  if  I  hadn't 
suhprised  him  in  the  ve'y  act  of  trying  to  kill  you 
as  you  were  lowering  that  thah  stop-gate  to-day, 
we  shall  neveh  know.  But  the  entiah  matteh  lies 
heavy  on  my  conscience,  suh.  I  ought  to  have  sus 
pected  the  true  sou'ce  of  all  the  mysterious  tragedies 
long  ago;  I  should  have  suspected  it  if  I  hadn't 
been  chin-deep  myself,  suh,  in  a  similah  pool  of 
animosity  against  Mr.  Pelham  and  his  fellow- 
robbehs.  What  will  you  do  with  this  po'  scoun 
drel  of  mine,  Mistuh  Ballard  ?" 

"Nothing,  at  present,"  said  Ballard,  gravely, 
340 


Deep  Unto  Deep 

"or  nothing  more  than  to  ask  him  a  question  or 
two."  He  turned  upon  the  Mexican,  who  was 
still  standing  statue-like  with  his  back  to  the  low 
cliff  of  the  path  ledge.  "Did  you  kill  Macpher- 
son  ? — as  well  as  Braithwaite  and  Sanderson  ?" 

"I  kill-a  dem  all,"  was  the  cool  reply.  "You 
say — he  all  say — 'I  make-a  da  dam.'  I'll  say: 
' Caramba!  You  no  make-a  da  dam  w'at  da 
Colonel  no  want  for  you  to  make.'  Dass  all." 

"  So  it  was  you  who  hit  Bromley  on  the  head  and 
knocked  him  into  the  canyon?" 

The  statuesque  foreman  showed  his  teeth. 
"Dat  was  one  bad  miutake.  I'll  been  try  for 
knock  you  on  da  haid,  dat  time,  for  sure,  Senor 
Ballar'." 

"And  you  were  wearing  that  rain-coat  when  you 
did  it?" 

The  Mexican  nodded.  "I'll  wear  heem  h-al- 
ways  w'en  da  sun  gone  down — same  like-a  da 
Colonel." 

"Also,  you  were  wearing  it  that  other  night, 
when  you  heaved  a  stone  down  on  my  office  roof?" 

Another  nod. 

"  But  on  the  night  when  you  scared  Hoskins  and 
made  him  double  up  his  train  on  Dead  Man's 
Curve,  you  didn't  wear  it;  you  wore  a  shooting- 
coat  and  a  cap  like  the  one  Braithwaite  used  to 


wear." 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

The  posing  statue  laughed  hardily.  "Dat  was 
one — w'at  you  call  heem  ? — one  beeg  joke.  I'll 
been  like  to  make  dat  'Oskins  break  hees  h'own 
neck,  si:  hees  talk  too  much  'bout  da  man  w'at 
drown'  heself." 

"And  the  Carson  business:  you  were  mixed  up 
in  that,  too  ?" 

"Dat  was  one  meestake,  al-so;  one  ver'  beeg 
meestake.  I'll  hire  dat  dam'-fool  Carson  to  shoot 
da  ditch.  I  t'ink  you  and  da  beeg  h-Irishman 
take-a  da  trail  and  Carson  keel  you.  Carson, 
he'll  take-a  da  money,  and  make  for  leetle  scheme 
to  steal  cattle.  Som'  day  I  keel  heem  for  dat." 

"Not  in  this  world,"  cut  in  Ballard,  briefly. 
"You're  out  of  the  game,  from  this  on."  And 
then,  determined  to  be  at  the  bottom  of  the  final 
mystery:  "You  played  the  spy  on  Mr.  Wingfield, 
Bromley,  Blacklock  and  me  one  afternoon  when 
we  were  talking  about  these  deviltries.  Afterward, 
you  went  up  to  Castle  'Cadia.  That  evening  Mr. 
Wingfield  nearly  lost  his  life.  Did  you  have  a 
hand  in  that  ?" 

Again  the  Mexican  laughed.  "Senor  WingfieP 
he  is  know  too  moch.  Som'  day  he  is  make  me 
ver'  sorry  for  myself.  So  I'll  hide  be'ind  dat 
fornace,  and  give  heem  one  leetle  push,  so" — with 
the  appropriate  gesture. 

"That  is  all,"  said  Ballard,  curtly.  And  then 
342 


Deep  Unto  Deep 

to  the  colonel:  "I  think  we'd  better  be  moving 
over  to  the  other  side.  The  ladies  will  be  anxious. 
Jerry,  take  that  fellow  on  ahead  of  you,  and  see 
that  he  doesn't  get  away.  I'm  sorry  for  you, 
Colonel  Craigmiles;  and  that  is  no  empty  form  of 
words.  As  you  have  said,  I  am  a  Kentuckian,  and 
I  do  know  what  loyalty — even  mistaken  loyalty — 
is  worth.  My  own  grudge  is  nothing;  I  haven't 
any.  But  there  are  other  lives  to  answer  for.  Am 
I  right?" 

"  You  are  quite  right,  suh;  quite  right,"  was  the 
sober  rejoinder;  and  then  Blacklock  said  "  Vamos!" 
to  his  prisoner,  airing  his  one  word  of  Spanish, 
and  in  single  file  the  five  men  crossed  on  the  dam 
to  the  mesa  side  of  the  rising  lake  where  Bigelow, 
with  Elsa  and  Miss  Cantrell  and  a  lately  awakened 
Mrs.  Van  Bryck,  were  waiting.  At  the  reassem 
bling,  Ballard  cut  the  colonel's  daughter  out  of  the 
storm  of  eager  questionings  swiftly,  masterfully. 

"You  were  wrong — we  were  all  wrong,"  he 
whispered  joyously.  "The  man  whom  you  saw, 
the  man  who  has  done  it  all  in  your  father's  abso 
lute  and  utter  ignorance  of  what  was  going  on,  is 
Manuel.  He  has  confessed;  first  to  his  master, 
and  just  now  to  all  of  us.  Your  father  is  as  sane 
as  he  is  blameless.  There  is  no  obstacle  now  for 
either  of  us.  I  shall  resign  to-morrow  morning, 
and- 

343 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

It  was  the  colonel's  call  that  interrupted. 

"One  moment,  Mistuh  Ballard,  if  you  please, 
suh.  Are  there  any  of  youh  ditch  camps  at 
present  in  the  riveh  valley  below  heah  ?" 

Ballard  shook  his  head.  "Not  now;  they  are 
all  on  the  high  land."  Then,  remembering  Brom 
ley's  report  of  the  empty  ranch  headquarters  and 
corrals:  "You  think  there  is  danger ?" 

"I  don't  think,  suh:  I  know.  Look  than," 
waving  an  arm  toward  the  dissolving  mine  dump 
on  the  opposing  slope;  "when  the  wateh  reaches 
that  tunnel  and  finds  its  way  behind  the  bulkhead, 
Mistuh  Ballard,  youh  dam's  gone — doomed  as 
surely  as  that  sinful  world  that  wouldn't  listen  to 
PreachuhNoah!" 

"But,  Colonel — you  can't  know  positively!" 

"I  do,  suh.  And  Mistuh  Pelham  knows  quite 
as  well  as  I  do.  You  may  have  noticed  that  we 
have  no  pumping  machinery  oveh  yondeh,  Mistuh 
Ballard:  That  is  because  the  mine  drains  out  into 
youh  pot-hole  below  the  dam!" 

"Heavens  and  earth  .'"ejaculated  Ballard,  aghast 
at  the  possibilities  laid  bare  in  this  single  explana 
tory  sentence.  "And  you  say  that  Mr.  Pelham 
knows  this  ?" 

"He  has  known  it  all  along.  I  deemed  it  my 
neighbo'ly  duty  to  inform  him  when  we  opened 
the  lower  level  in  the  mine.  But  he  won't  be  the 

344 


Deep  Unto  Deep 

loseh;  no,  suh;  not  Mistuh  Howard  Pelham. 
It'll  be  those  po'  sheep  that  he  brought  up  here  to 
day  to  prepare  them  for  the  shearing — if  the  riveh 
gives  him  time  to  make  the  turn." 

"The  danger  is  immediate,  then?"  said  Bige- 
elow. 

The  white-haired  King  of  Arcadia  was  standing 
on  the  brink  of  the  mesa  cliff,  a  stark  figure  in  the 
white  moonlight,  with  his  hand  at  his  ear.  "  Hark, 
gentlemen!"  he  commanded;  and  then:  "Youh 
ears  are  all  youngeh  than  mine.  What  do  you 
heah?" 

It  was  Ballard  who  replied:  "The  wind  is 
rising  on  the  range;  I  can  hear  it  singing  in  the 
pines." 

"No,  suh;  that  isn't  the  wind — it's  wateh;  tor 
rents  and  oceans  of  it.  There  have  been  great  and 
phenomenal  storms  up  in  the  basin  all  day;  storms 
and  cloud-bursts.  See  than!" 

A  rippling  wave  a  foot  high  came  sweeping  down 
the  glassy  surface  of  the  reservoir  lake,  crowding 
and  rioting  until  it  doubled  its  depth  in  rushing  into 
the  foothill  canyon.  Passing  the  mine,  it  swept 
away  other  tons  of  the  dump;  and  an  instant  later 
the  water  at  the  feet  of  the  onlookers  lifted  like 
the  heave  of  a  great  ground-swell — lifted,  but  did 
not  subside. 

Ballard's  square  jaw  was  out-thrust.  "We  did 
345 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

not  build  for  any  such  brutal  tests  as  this,"  he  mut 
tered.  "Another  surge  like  that— 

"It  is  coming!"  cried  Elsa.  "The  power  dam 
in  the  upper  canyon  is  gone!"  and  the  sharer  of 
the  single  Cantrell  Christian  name  shrieked  and 
took  shelter  under  Bigelow's  arm. 

Far  up  the  moon-silvered  expanse  of  the  lake  a 
black  line  was  advancing  at  railway  speed.  It 
was  like  the  ominous  flattening  of  the  sea  before  a 
hurricane;  but  the  chief  terror  of  it  lay  in  the 
peaceful  surroundings.  No  cloud  flecked  the  sky; 
no  breath  of  air  was  stirring;  the  calm  of  the 
matchless  summer  night  was  unbroken,  save  by 
the  surf-like  murmur  of  the  great  wave  as  it  rose 
high  and  still  higher  in  the  narrowing  raceway. 
Instinctively  Ballard  put  his  arm  about  Elsa  and 
drew  her  back  from  the  cliff's  edge.  There  could 
be  no  chance  of  danger  for  the  group  looking  on 
from  the  top  of  the  high  mesa;  yet  the  command 
ing  roar  of  the  menace  was  irresistible. 

When  the  wave  entered  the  wedge-shaped  upper 
end  of  the  Elbow  it  was  a  foam-crested  wall  ten 
feet  high,  advancing  with  the  black-arched  front 
of  a  tidal  billow,  mighty,  terrifying,  the  cold  breath 
of  it  blowing  like  a  chill  wind  from  the  underworld 
upon  the  group  of  watchers.  In  its  onrush  the 
remains  of  the  mine  dump  melted  and  vanished, 
and  the  heavy  bulkhead  timbering  at  the  mouth  of 

346 


Deep  Unto  Deep 

the  workings  was  torn  away,  to  be  hurled,  with 
other  tons  of  floating  debris,  against  the  back-wall 
of  the  dam. 

Knowing  all  the  conditions,  Ballard  thought  the 
masonry  would  never  withstand  the  hammer- 
blow  impact  of  the  wreck-laden  billow.  Yet  it 
stood,  apparently  undamaged,  even  after  the  splin 
tered  mass  of  wreckage,  tossed  high  on  the  crest 
of  the  wave,  had  leaped  the  coping  course  to 
plunge  thundering  into  the  ravine  below.  The 
great  wall  was  like  some  massive  fortification 
reared  to  endure  such  shocks;  and  Elsa,  facing 
the  terrific  spectacle  beside  her  lover,  like  a  rein 
carnation  of  one  of  the  battle-maidens,  gave  him 
his  rightful  meed  of  praise. 

"You  builded  well — you  and  the  others!"  she 
cried.  "It  will  not  break!" 

But  even  as  she  spoke,  the  forces  that  sap  and 
destroy  were  at  work.  There  was  a  hoarse  groan 
ing  from  the  underground  caverns  of  the  zirconium 
mine — sounds  as  of  a  volcano  in  travail.  The 
wave  retreated  for  a  little  space,  and  the  white  line 
of  the  coping  showed  bare  and  unbroken  in  the 
moonlight.  Silence,  the  deafening  silence  which 
follows  the  thunderclap,  succeeded  to  the  clamour 
of  the  waters,  and  this  in  turn  gave  place  to  a 
curious  gurgling  roar  as  of  some  gigantic  vessel 
emptying  itself  through  an  orifice  in  its  bottom. 

347 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

The  white-haired  king  was  nearest  to  the  brink 
of  peril.  At  the  gurgling  roar  he  turned  with 
arms  outspread  and  swept  the  onlooking  group, 
augmented  now  by  the  men  from  Garou's  cook 
camp,  back  and  away  from  the  dam-head.  Out 
of  the  torrent-worn  pit  in  the  lower  ravine  a  great 
jet  of  water  was  spurting  intermittently,  like  the 
blood  from  a  severed  artery. 

"That  is  the  end!"  groaned  Ballard,  turning 
away  from  the  death  grapple  between  his  work 
and  the  blind  giant  of  the  Boiling  Water;  and  just 
then  Blacklock  shouted,  snatched,  wrestled  for  an 
instant  with  a  writhing  captive — and  was  left  with 
a  torn  mackintosh  in  his  hands  for  his  only  trophy. 

They  all  saw  the  Mexican  when  he  slipped  out 
of  the  rain-coat,  eluded  Blacklock,  and  broke  away, 
to  dart  across  the  chasm  on  the  white  pathway  of 
the  dam's  coping  course.  He  was  half-way  over 
to  the  shore  of  escape  when  his  nerve  failed. 
To  the  spouting  fountain  in  the  gulch  below 
and  the  sucking  whirlpool  in  the  Elbow  above 
was  added  a  second  tidal  wave  from  the  cloud 
burst  sources;  a  mere  ripple  compared  with  the 
first,  but  yet  great  enough  to  make  a  maelstrom 
of  the  gurgling  whirlpool,  and  to  send  its  crest 
of  spray  flying  over  the  narrow  causeway.  When 
the  barrier  was  bared  again  the  Mexican  was 
seen  clinging  limpet-like  to  the  rocks,  his  cour- 

348 


Deep  Unto  Deep 

age  gone  and  his  death-warrant  signed.  For 
while  he  clung,  the  great  wall  lost  its  perfect  align 
ment,  sagged,  swayed  outward  under  the  irresist 
ible  pressure  from  above,  crumbled,  and  was  gone 
in  a  thunder-burst  of  sound  that  stunned  the 
watchers  and  shook  the  solid  earth  of  the  mesa 
where  they  stood. 

"Are  you  quite  sure  it  wasn't  all  a  frightful 
dream?"  asked  the  young  woman  in  a  charming 
house  gown  and  pointed  Turkish  slippers  of  the 
young  man  with  his  left  arm  in  a  sling;  the  pair 
waiting  the  breakfast  call  in  the  hammock-bridged 
corner  of  the  great  portico  at  Castle  'Cadia. 

It  was  a  Colorado  mountain  morning  of  the  sort 
called  "Italian"  by  enthusiastic  tourists.  The  air 
was  soft  and  balmy;  a  rare  blue  haze  lay  in  the 
gulches;  and  the  patches  of  yellowing  aspens  on 
the  mountain  shoulders  added  the  needed  touch  of 
colour  to  relieve  the  dun-browns  and  grays  of  the 
balds  and  the  heavy  greens  of  the  forested  slopes. 
Save  for  the  summer-dried  grass,  lodged  and 
levelled  in  great  swaths  by  the  sudden  freeing  of 
the  waters,  the  foreground  of  the  scene  was  un 
changed.  Through  the  bowl-shaped  valley  the 
Boiling  Water,  once  more  an  August-dwindled 
mountain  stream,  flowed  murmurously  as  before; 
and  a  mile  away  in  the  foothill  gap  of  the  Elbow, 

349 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

the  huge  steel-beamed  derrick  lined  itself  against 
the  farther  distances. 

"No,  it  wasn't  a  dream/'  said  Ballard.  "The 
thirty-mile,  nerve-trying  drive  home  in  the  car, 
with  the  half-wrecked  railroad  bridge  for  a  river 
crossing,  ought  to  have  convinced  you  of  the 
realities." 

"Nothing  convinces  me  any  more,"  she  con 
fessed,  with  the  air  of  one  who  has  seen  chaos  and 
cosmos  succeed  each  other  in  dizzying  alterna 
tions;  and  when  Ballard  would  have  gone  into  the 
particulars  of  that  with  her,  the  King  of  Arcadia 
came  up  from  his  morning  walk  around  the  home 
stead  knoll. 

"Ah,  you  youngstehs!"  he  said,  with  the  note  of 
fatherly  indulgence  in  the  mellow  voice.  "Out 
yondeh  undeh  the  maples,  I  run  across  the  Bigelow 
boy  and  Madge  Cantrell; — 'Looking  to  see  what 
damage  the  water  had  done,'  they  said,  as  inno 
cent  as  a  pair  of  turtle-doves!  Oveh  in  the 
orcha'd  I  stumble  upon  Mistuh  Wingfield  and 
Dosia.  I  didn't  make  them  lie  to  me,  and  I'm 
not  going  to  make  you  two.  But  I  should  greatly 
appreciate  a  word  with  you,  Mistuh  Ballard." 

Elsa  got  up  to  go  in,  but  Ballard  sat  in  the  ham 
mock  and  drew  her  down  beside  him  again. 
"  With  your  permission,  which  I  was  going  to  ask 
immediately  after  breakfast,  Colonel  Craigmiles, 

35° 


Deep  Unto  Deep 

we  two  are  one,"  he  said,  with  the  frank,  boyish 
smile  that  even  his  critics  found  hard  to  resist. 
"Will  you  so  regard  us?" 

The  colonel's  answering  laugh  had  no  hint  of 
obstacles  in  it. 

"It  was  merely  a  little  matteh  of  business,"  he 
explained.  "Will  youh  shot-up  arm  sanction  a 
day's  travel,  Mistuh  Ballard  ?" 

"Surely.  This  sling  is  wholly  Miss  Elsa's  idea 
and  invention.  I  don't  need  it." 

"Well,  then;  heah's  the  programme:  Afteh 
breakfast,  Otto  will  drive  you  oveh  to  Alta  Vista  in 
the  light  car.  From  there  you  will  take  the  train 
to  Denver.  When  you  arrive,  you  will  find  the 
tree  of  the  Arcadia  Company  pretty  well  shaken 
by  the  news  of  the  catastrophe  to  the  dam.  Am  I 
safe  in  assuming  so  much  ?" 

"More  than  safe:  every  stockholder  in  the  outfit 
will  be  ducking  to  cover." 

"Ve'y  good.  Quietly,  then,  and  without  much 
— ah — ostentation,  as  youh  own  good  sense  would 
dictate,  you  will  pick  up,  in  youh  name  or  mine,  a 
safe  majority  of  the  stock.  Do  I  make  myself 
clean?" 

"Perfectly,  so  far." 

"Then  you  will  come  back  to  Arcadia,  reor 
ganise  youh  force — you  and  Mistuh  Bromley — and 
build  you  anotheh  dam;  this  time  in  the  location 

351 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

below  the  Elbow,  where  it  should  have  been  built 
befo'.     Am  I  still  clean?" 

"Why,  clear  enough,  certainly.  But  I  thought 
— I've  been  given  to  understand  that  you  were 
fighting  the  irrigation  scheme  on  its  merits;  that 
you  didn't  want  your  kingdom  of  Arcadia  turned 
into  a  farming  community.  I  don't  blame  you, 
you  know." 

The  old  cattle  king's  gaze  went  afar,  through  the 
gap  to  the  foothills  and  beyond  to  the  billowing 
grass-lands  of  Arcadia  Park,  and  the  shrewd  old  eyes 
lost  something  of  their  militant  fire  when  he  said : 

"  I  reckon  I  was  right  selfish  about  that,  in  the 
beginning,  Mistuh  Ballard.  It's  a  mighty  fine 
range,  suh,  and  I  was  greedy  for  the  isolation — as 
some  otheh  men  are  greedy  for  money  and  the 
power  it  brings.  But  this  heah  little  girl  of  mine 
she  went  out  into  the  world,  and  came  back  to 
shame  me,  suh.  Here  was  land  and  a  living, 
independence  and  happiness,  for  hundreds  of  the 
world's  po'  strugglers,  and  I  was  making  a  cattle 
paschuh  of  it!  Right  then  and  thah  was  bo'n 
the  idea,  suh,  of  making  a  sure-enough  kingdom 
of  Arcadia,  and  it  was  my  laying  of  the  founda 
tions  that  attracted  Mr.  Pelham  and  his  money- 
hungry  crowd." 

"Your  idea!"  ejaculated  Ballard.  "Then  Pel- 
ham  and  his  people  were  interlopers?" 

352 


Deep  Unto  Deep 

"You  can  put  it  that  way;  yes,  suh.  Thei-uh 
idea  was  wrapped  up  in  a  coin-sack;  you  could 
fai'ly  heah  it  clink!  Thei-uh  proposal  was  to  sell 
the  land,  and  to  make  the  water  an  eve'lasting  tax 
upon  it;  mine  was  to  make  the  water  free.  We 
hitched  on  that,  and  then  they  proposed  to  me — 
to  me,  suh — to  make  a  stock-selling  swindle  of  it. 
When  I  told  them  they  were  a  pack  of  damned 
scoundrels,  they  elected  to  fight  me,  suh;  and  last 
night,  please  God,  we  saw  the  beginning  of  the  end 
that  is  to  be — the  righteous  end.  But  come  on  in 
to  breakfast;  you  can't  live  on  sentiment  for  always, 
Mistuh  Ballard." 

They  went  in  together  behind  him,  the  two  for 
whom  Arcadia  had  suddenly  been  transformed 
into  paradise,  and  on  the  way  the  Elsa  whom  Bal 
lard  had  first  known  and  learned  to  love  in  the 
far-distant  world  Beyond  the  barrier  mountains 
reasserted  herself. 

"What  do  you  suppose  Mr.  Pelham  will  say 
when  he  hears  that  you  have  really  made  love  to 
the  cow-punching  princess  ?"  she  asked,  flippantly. 
"  Do  you  usually  boast  of  such  things  in  advance, 
Mr.  Ballard?" 

But  his  answer  ignored  the  little  pin-prick  of 
mockery. 

"I'm  thinking  altogether  of  Colonel  Adam 
Craigmiles,  my  dear;  and  of  the  honour  he  does 

353 


The  King  of  Arcadia 

you  by  being  your  father.  He  is  a  king,  every  inch 
of  him,  Elsa,  girl!  I'm  telling  you  right  now  that 
we'll  have  to  put  in  the  high  speed,  and  keep  it  in, 
to  live  up  to  him." 

And  afterward,  when  the  house-party  guests  had 
gathered,  in  good  old  Kentucky  fashion,  around 
the  early  breakfast-table,  and  the  story  of  the  night 
had  been  threshed  out,  and  word  was  brought  that 
Otto  and  the  car  were  waiting,  he  stood  up  with 
his  hand  on  the  back  of  Elsa's  chair  and  lifted  his 
claret  class  with  the  loyal  thought  still  uppermost. 
"A  toast  with  me,  good  friends — my  stirrup-cup: 
I  drink  to  our  host,  the  Knight  Commander  of 
Castle  'Cadia,  and  the  reigning  monarch  of  the 
Land  of  Heart's  Delight — Long  live  the  King  of 
Arcadia!" 

And  they  drank  it  standing. 

THE  END 


354 


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